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THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


/ 


THE FRONTIERS OF 
THE HEART 


BY 


VICTOR MARGUERITTE 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 

FREDERIC LEES 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




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Copyright, 1913, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 


All rights reserved 


January, 1913 


© Cl, A 3 3 0 7 5 2 

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PREFACE 


By means of two great collective bodies, the Army 
and the Town of Metz, Le Desastre endeavoured to 
revive an epoch. The following picture, painted 
with the same colours, is confined to the presentation 
of a household tragedy. In the case of this French- 
woman and this German, in the case of these races 
which confront each other, the fatherland rises 
above the family, — love is killed by war. 

The heart also possesses frontiers, — unsuspected 
walls hidden by peace and happiness, and which, on 
the bloody day, rise up abruptly. Such would be 
the import of these pages, which do but execrate 
that abominable scourge, war, and express the de- 
sire that, on each side of the frontier, family and 
fatherland be held in honour. 

Without wasting time over a tedious bibliography, 
I am desirous, with respect to the historical portion 
of this novel, of thanking M. Henri Michel, the 
curator of the Amiens Library, who kindly brought 
to my notice the very interesting unpublished mem- 
oirs of Ambroise Janvier, and M. Niquet, the ar- 
chivist who communicated to me the deliberations of 
the Municipal Council of those days, as well as the 


PREFACE 


rare Memorial d’ Amiens. I have also consulted, 
with great benefit, M. Gabriel Monod’s Frangais et 
Allemands , and M. de Calonne’s Histoire d’ Amiens. 

V. M. 


PART I 


I 

“ Slowly, slowly, little one ! ” 

Marthe Ellange raised her beautiful brown eyes 
towards the aged face of the murmurer and smiled. 

“ I beg your pardon, grandfather. I wasn’t 
thinking . . .” 

“ Of my seventy-eight years, eh? ” 

“ Oh ! but you don’t look them ! ” 

The Major straightened his stooping figure, squar- 
ing his broad shoulders in his dark green frock coat, 
which was drawn in at the waist like a military tunic. 
The large red rosette of the Legion of Honour 
decorated his buttonhole. A roguish look gleamed 
beneath his heavy eyelids. 

“ Come now ! That’s all very well ! ” 

The girl blushed. 

“ We are late, too,” she said. “ He must have 
been there a quarter of an hour already.” 

“ Ah ! love’s fair dream ! But must I tell you 
what I think? Don’t hurry too much. There is 
good in waiting; it excites desire.” 

1 


2 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ Yes, grandfather, but Otto and I have been 
waiting a whole year.” 

“ You will love each other all the better for that. 
Listen, little one, the poets are sometimes right: 

L’absence est a l’amour comme est au feu le vent 
Qui eteint le petit et avive le grand! 

But where the deuce have the others gone to ? ” 

“ Lost, — lost once more. I’m sure they do it 
on purpose.” 

The Major shrugged his shoulders in indication 
of the human river which was carrying them along, 
the incessant eddy of the crowd, passing backwards 
and forwards. All nations mingled their charac- 
ters, dress and speech in that place. There was a 
roar as of the ocean and the tide under the huge 
glazed arch of the central alley, which, on that June 
day, had become stiflingly hot. A cloud of fine 
dust, like a golden veil, floated in the depths of the 
galleries, whose circular spaces, filled with marvels, 
stretched on every side. Innumerable heads moved 
up and down in the distance. An acrid and power- 
ful odour entered the throat and dulled the senses : 
the emanation from that gigantic furnace into 
which one hundred thousand beings were packed. 
On that Sunday the 1867 Exhibition was in full 
swing. 

An exclamation of relief passed the girl’s lips. 

They had just issued from the Rue de Belgique 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART S 


and entered the Avenue d’ Europe, leaving behind 
them the deadened roar of the huge glass-roofed 
palace, which, with its annulated domes, might 
have been compared to an immense oval sea-shell, 
lying flat on the ground, and whose mighty, con- 
fused murmur — a murmur as of the sea — gradu- 
ally diminished. The splendour of the declining 
day enveloped them. How pleasant was the fresh- 
ness of the expanses of verdure, with their light- 
coloured buildings scattered here and there! The 
Major shaded his reddened eyes with his hand, and 
turned his shaking head from side to side. His 
large white moustache bristled on his rough skin, 
which resembled an ancient stone eaten away by 
lichens. Scorched by the sun of many lands and 
shrivelled up by age, this old soldier of Napoleon, 
this Brazilian colonist, this old independent gentle- 
man of Amiens was now but a ruin. Nevertheless, 
with his tall, corpulent stature, his scarred cheek, 
and his rough good-natured air, he still presented a 
fine figure. 

“ Positively, I’ve lost sight of them altogether.” 

Marthe pouted. Tall and slender, with a well- 
developed figure and round hips, she formed, on the 
old man’s arm, an astonishing contrast. A large 
paille d’ltalie hat, the black velvet ribbons of which 
fell on to her low chignon, framed her pure face 
and auburn hair. Her twenty-three years, which 
still retained the grace of a young girl and already 


4 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


indicated the maturity of a woman, exhaled health, 
distinction, strength. She had a peach-like com- 
plexion and snow-white teeth, the brilliancy and 
softness of a beautiful golden fruit. A strong yet 
sweet look — her whole soul — shone in her admira- 
ble chestnut-coloured eyes. A shade of hardness 
appeared in them now. 

“ Father doesn’t like Otto and mother fears a 
marriage which would take me far from her . . . 
If they had their way we should not meet M. Rud- 
heimer to-day.” 

The Major struck the ground with his gold- 
headed stick. 

“ But haven’t I told you that you shall marry 
him?” 

“ Yes, I know that quite well. Consequently, it 
is not a fear of the future which troubles me. I 
am certain that I shall be very happy with Otto. 
Hesse is not far from either Paris or Amiens. And 
Marburg is a charming town. You know it, since 
you were in garrison there.” 

“ An owl’s nest. Everything three centuries old. 
But it has changed, perhaps, since . . .” 

“ No, everything is in its place and still older. 
Ah! how I adore Marburg. I can see myself there 
already, in my little house in the Burgerstrasse.” 

She sighed. 

“ No, what grieves me is that my fiance . . .” 

“ Your fiance, your fiance! ” 

“ But, grandfather, it is not only the announce- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 5 


ment of the marriage which binds, nor the ring. 
Our feeling is such that it is in no way increased by 
these official consecrations. I have his word and 
he has mine; — that is enough. Well, now, what 
wounds and irritates me is the fact that for the past 
year they have taken no account of my wish, and 
continue to regard Otto as a stranger and our 
promise as null. You are the only one who un- 
derstands me, — you and Frida. As to my 
brother . . 

Louis, the barrister, and the elder brother Jacques, 
the lieutenant, looked with no kindly eye on a sister 
who dreamed of a marriage which would exile her. 

She tenderly pressed the arm upon which she ap- 
peared to be leaning but which, filially, she was 
supporting. 

“ They discuss and quibble as though my mind 
were not made up. Otto has been here a fortnight 
and yet not a day has passed without papa making 
him feel that he is not yet one of the family and 
never will be except against his will. Jacques and 
Louis have not even taken the trouble to come to 
Paris to meet him, and mamma knits her brows as 
soon as she sees him. Poor mamma ! It is sad to 
think that, in order to conquer one’s happiness, one 
must torture those one loves ! ” 

The old soldier uttered a sudden exclamation and 
whirled his heavy stick round in his knotty hand, — 
a flourish which caused two English ladies to step 
aside and regard him with an air of reproof. A 


6 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


group of Indians passed. Grave under their turbans 
and white garments, their features were so clear cut 
that they appeared to be in bronze. There was a 
dormant fire in their black eyes. The fustanella of 
a Greek fell in ample folds over his red gaiters. 
Some placid Dutchmen elbowed a bevy of beautiful 
Scandinavians, long in their lines and loud in their 
speech. Golden hair fell in curls on their swan- 
like necks. 

“ Little one,” said the Major, “ the essential thing 
is to conquer your happiness. Let each individual 
follow his conscience and each generation its ideas. 
Do you think that, when, at the age of seventeen and 
in the year of Jena, I left Amiens for the war, and 
when, after Waterloo, I sailed for Brazil, my parents 
did not weep? The Ellanges had been doctors 
from father to son. But I parted from the syringe 
and the bistoury. And the best hours of my life 
were those which I spent as a boy rushing over 
Europe behind the Tondu 1 and those, when a man, 
which I employed in planting and harvesting coffee 
at Sao Paulo. Not to mention the fact that over 
there I also made a fortune, which enabled me, when 
I returned with Pepita, to sweeten the declining days 
of the old folks.” 

He contemplated the dreamy Marthe stealthily. 
She had the very look of her grandmother. 

“Your eyes are the same as hers. Ah! if you 
had only known her.” 

1 The little corporal, — Napoleon I. — Translator. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 7 


Moved, he called to memory their long life to- 
gether, — a cloudless life, in spite of the difference 
in their ages and nationality. He could hear her 
singing voice and its guttural languor. Since he had 
been happy with a woman of Portuguese blood, why 
should not Marthe, in her turn, find happiness with 
a German ? 

The girl evoked the pastel which decorated her 
bedroom, above the chest of drawers. Within a 
faded gold frame, a dark face with thick wavy 
hair was smiling like an ardent-souled madonna. 
Marthe thought of the obscure bonds of heredity, 
the source of beings, a bottomless abyss. Thus the 
light which shone in the grandmother’s tender look, 
and the extinguished flame of which she had so 
many times scrutinised, was living within her, 
kindled anew. And the look with which she herself 
boldly faced the future, — that look in which her 
soul, her own soul, blazed, — that look which for 
the first time seemed to her to fix, to possess the 
present was but a reflection, the mysterious legacy 
of the past ! 

She laughed. 

“ Very well, grandfather, I will do as you did. 
I will conquer my happiness.” 

“ How so?” 

“ You’ll see . . . Six o’clock already ! let us 
hurry.” 

“ Six o’clock? Where do you see that? ” 

She pointed to the distant clock of the £cole 


8 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Militaire, situated on the axis of the building, at 
the end of the palisaded Champ-de-Mars. 

“ Ah! good.” 

They passed in front of the statue of Leopold I 
and the annex of the Beaux- Arts. In her eager- 
ness to have a definite explanation, she hurried the 
old man along. She felt sure that her father and 
mother, with Frida Lehmann, must already be at 
the meeting-place, — La Grande Serre, in the Jardin 
Reserve. If only Otto had not yet arrived and she 
could extort a consent to the marriage from her 
parents! Dragging himself along, the Major fol- 
lowed her. He was more active in the old days — 
fifty-two years ago ! — when he strode over that 
same ground at the head of his company, the Velites 
of the Young Guard. How many times he had 
raised his eyes toward that clock whose indefatiga- 
ble hands ever continued to turn ! Since the time of 
Louis XVI they had witnessed on the grassy plain 
the great fetes of the Revolution and the Empire. 
They had measured time at the reviews of the Res- 
toration and the July Monarchy. They still re- 
corded it at the displays of Napoleon III, at this 
World’s Fair, where, with so much pomp and pro- 
fusion, the glory and the wealth of France was 
spread out. 

With a feeling of pride, the Major took in at a 
glance the foreign section which stretched on his 
right. Surmounted by multicoloured flags, the 
pavilions of Prussia and the small German States, 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 9 


of Spain, Norway, Portugal and Switzerland raised, 
amidst clumps of flowers and trees, their picturesque 
architecture. Further off, around the Palais Cen- 
tral, — a prodigious accumulation of all the indus- 
tries and arts of the country, and symbolical of the 
feverish heart of Paris, the capital of the world, — 
were the buildings of Sweden, Austria, Italy and 
Russia. Still further away, like a cincture of sub- 
urbs, stood those of the Pontifical States, Turkey, 
Persia, the American Republic and China. Jean 
Pierre Ellange thought that he was once more living 
in heroic times. An audience of kings sat at the 
Opera; they did homage at the Tuileries. To-day it 
was the Czar and the King of Prussia ; to-morrow 
it would be the Emperor of Austria and the Sultan. 
The impassive-faced Emperor, with the Grand 
Cordon across his breast, filed past in his eagle em- 
blazoned victoria amidst a retinue of sovereigns. 
The beauty of the Empress shed additional glory 
on the brilliant splendour of the court balls. The 
laurels of Sebastopol and Magenta, hardly yet dried 
by the sun of Mexico, made the reign a triumphal 
victory. The dark days of the Invasion, the night- 
mare of Cossack boots and Prussian heels were for- 
gotten. Had he, Jean Pierre, really lived through 
that? No, victories grouped themselves, faithful 
still, at the foot of the throne. The crowned N 
shone as in former days on the purple velvet, rus- 
tling with bees. 

A sound of trumpets, sharp and distinct, came 


10 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


through the sonorous air from beyond the barracks. 
A vision of the army appeared before the Major’s 
eyes. France was again at the height of her power. 
Enthusiasm followed by a sudden feeling of mel- 
ancholy, filled his heart. He felt so very tired, so 
near his end ! He had traversed so many countries 
and periods ! Soon his eyes would close. Oh ! that 
they might do so whilst this magnificence lasted ! 

“ I say, but you’ve made me warm ! ” exclaimed 
the old man. 

They had arrived, on skirting the fresh-water 
Aquarium, at the approaches to the Grande Serre, 
whose trellis- work portico and curved roofs stood 
on a calcareous foundation, surrounded by gushing 
streams, in the middle ;of the Jardin Reserve. The 
oriflammes, hanging motionless at the top of the 
flag-staffs, suddenly began to wave in the air. A 
breeze had sprung up, caressing the grey, heat- 
ladened atmosphere. The setting sun covered the 
glass, which had the aspect of metal in fusion, with 
large golden scales. 

“ There they are,” murmured Marthe. 

She had caught sight of them in the central alley 
of the building, opposite a clump of tropical plants, 
— an enormous dark bouquet of cacti, euphorbias, 
palms, bananas, latanias, aloes and lianes which 
formed a complicated and inextricable mass of 
branches and prickly, hairy leaves. M. and Mme. 
Ellange, with a discontented air, stood there on the 
watch. Near them, comfortably seated in the hoi- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 11 


low of a wicker-work bench, good Frida Lehmann 
was dozing. 

Marthe advanced quickly towards her mother, 
who also made a few steps to meet them, whilst 
M. Ellange, in order to show his detachment, sat 
down near the governess, thus exaggerating his ordi- 
nary gravity. 

“ Otto has not yet arrived,” declared Mme. El- 
lange in a reproachful tone. “ It is inconceivable. 
I think that when people make an appointment . . 

“ So much the better, petite mere !” 

She did not waste time in making excuses for him, 
but went straight to the point. The minutes were 
precious. 

“ It is just as well that he is late. For it gives 
me time to speak to you and father.” 

Mme. Ellange sounded her, put out of counte- 
nance. This counter-attack left her defenceless. 
An excellent woman, whose weakness was bound- 
less in the case of those she loved, she submitted, 
in this matter, to the habitual authority of her hus- 
band. At forty -five years of age, with her grey 
fillets and small, plump, spruce face, she had the in- 
genuous air of a little girl. In her flax-blue eyes 
was to be read absolute goodness, and in her entire 
person — discreet and steeped in devotion — an as- 
tonishing absence of will-power. She had two mas- 
ters, whom she unreservedly venerated : her husband 
and God. Two passions governed her: her home, 
which she carefully kept in hand, and her daughter, 


12 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


who, on reaching adolescence, had escaped from her. 
She had had no more influence over her than upon 
her sons, Jacques and Louis, devil-may-care youths 
who, whilst yet boys, exercised a man-like tyranny. 

“ But — ” 

With a look she appealed to the Major, but imme- 
diately beat a retreat on hearing him say : 

“ Marthe is quite right. The matter must be 
ended.” 

“ You must say that to Lucien,” she sighed. 

M. Ellange, on seeing his daughter walk towards 
him with a firm footstep, faced her. A tall, thin 
man with a bony face, almost white whiskers, yel- 
low complexion and clear look, he rose, and with a 
dignity befitting an Imperial Procurator. M. El- 
lange, whose frigidity dissimulated a rare judicial 
knowledge and a cultured mind, seemed the very 
incarnation of the magistrature, ever ready to pre- 
sent a claim. He possessed more heart than he 
showed on the surface, a very keen taste for litera- 
ture, — especially Latin literature, and a deep knowl- 
edge of politics and history. 

“ Well, where’s the fiance , Mademoiselle? ” 

He added between his teeth : 

“If only he could never come! ” 

“Oh! Father,” protested Marthe, “that is too 
bad!” 

“ Mein gott ! ” 

“ Lucien ! ” 

“ Leave me, my good wife,” ordered M. Ellange. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 13 


“And as to you, Fraulein, I will do without your 
advice.” 

Mme. Ellange, overwhelmed, dropped into a seat 
by the side of Frida Lehmann. With her hands 
clasped over her knees, the latter regarded with dis- 
quietude the combat between her pupil, almost her 
daughter ( for had she not formed her, morally and 
spiritually?) and the hardy antagonist she knew the 
magistrate to be. Father and daughter faced each 
other, with compressed lips and stiffened chins. 
With a confident look, Marthe enjoined her gov- 
erness to keep silent; Frida could be of no assistance 
to her at such a moment. 

M. Ellange was that day taking his revenge on 
the influence which had been exercised for so many 
years. If Marthe had turned aside from their 
ideas, if she had also taken, in a particularly strik- 
ing manner, the German impress, — that amalgam 
of romantic sensibility, practical common sense and 
steadiness of mind, it was “ Mademoiselle ” Leh- 
mann’s doing. Beware of attaching yourself to 
people! Ah! he had been well inspired on the day 
when, on the lookout for a governess for his 
daughter and touched by the misfortunes of Frida, 
a penniless orphan, he had brought her from Hesse 
on the recommendation of Father Rudheimer. 
What need had he to write to that stupid pastor, a 
former acquaintance at the ficole de Droit? And 
what an idea, too, that of teaching Marthe German ! 
They saw now what that had led to. The deuce 


14 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


take their systems and all the philosophers beyond 
the Rhine, — philosophic systems under whose fas- 
cination he had come like other people but which 
with all the reveries of their poets, he now cursed. 
The deuce take Kant and Goethe, Hegel, Klopstock 
and Heine. And the deuce take Frida Lehmann. 
In turn he cast a severe look at the governess’ good, 
freckled face, her tow-like hair and corpulent body, 
the result of gluttony and lack of physical exercise. 
Frida had a beautiful soul within a heavy envelope. 

“ Father,” said Marthe resolutely, “ we have 
evaded this matter enough. Otto is leaving for 
Germany at the end of the week. His patients re- 
quire attention. On leaving us yesterday he was 
no further advanced than on the very first day. 
This situation cannot last any longer. We have 
loved each other since . . 

“ Your visit to Marburg ! I know.” 

Ah ! that three months’ holiday, four years ago ! 
Entrusted to the care of Frida, who had not seen 
Hesse again since her arrival at Amiens, Marthe 
had fallen in love with Otto. What an error he had 
committed in arranging that sojourn, during which, 
under the pretext that she was perfecting herself in 
the study of the language, she had familiarised her- 
self with Marburg society and had noticed the 
doctor. And what weakness he had shown in con- 
senting to her return there in the following sum- 
mer! . . . But how was he to know what was 
going to happen ? . . . He detested Marthe’s feel- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 15 


ing, which had been sown and had grown to matur- 
ity without his knowledge . . . Her dissimulation 
and then, after the confession, her obstinacy drove 
him out of his wits. 

Very calmly, she continued: 

“ We have loved each other for four years. And 
we told each other so a year ago. It was then that 
I opened my heart to you. ,, 

“ Somewhat late in the day.” 

“ On the very day on which I began to read my 
heart. Did I know until then ? It was Otto’s con- 
fession which revealed me to myself. Well, you 
asked me then to reflect and have patience. I have 
done so, during twelve months ... It has been 
a long trial! We have now seen each other again, 
and our love is stronger — if that is possible — than 
ever. During the past fortnight mamma and you 
have been able to form an opinion of the character 
and value of M. Rudheimer . . . His father is 
but waiting for the announcement that you are 
agreeable, to make his demand. What do you 
decide ? ” 

M. Ellange assumed a joking attitude. 

“ The deuce ! you need a reply immediately ? ” 

She spoke out plainly : 

“ Immediately ! ” 

“ Well, well! . . ” 

He made a sudden gesture. 

Seeing the game compromised by her vivacity, 
she adopted a tenderer tone : 


16 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“What, little father? Do you reproach Otto 
with anything? ” 

“ Oh! no, I’ve nothing to say against him. He is 
a loyal and honest fellow. I believe that he has as 
generous a heart and as quick an intellect as it is 
possible for a German to have. He is fond of work 
and his profession, which is a fine one. He is a 
true man of science. ,, 

“ There now, you see his good qualities quite 
well ! ” 

“ But, my poor child, love is not the only thing. 
There is marriage. Have you considered what your 
life would be over there, far from your native coun- 
try and your parents, without friends and isolated 
in an unbreathable air, — an existence during which 
everything would clash with your tastes and hab- 
its? . . . Think of yourself, you, so French, in 
spite of the culture which you owe to Mile. Leh- 
mann — (the name stuck in his throat) — you, a 
Catholic, in that Lutheran hole Marburg, where 
every one, from the Aulic Councillor to the young- 
est red-capped student, would look upon you as an 
infidel, — where the old women would point you out 
with their fingers ! ” 

“ But you know how liberal Otto is. Those are 
subjects upon which we never enter. I am sure he 
will respect my religious scruples, as I respect his. 
And as to the others — the world . . 

She swept them aside with a gesture. 

“ You will have your work cut out. The in- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 17 


dividual cannot escape from the society which sur- 
rounds and has formed him. Little by little it will 
deform you. If you marry this man you are lost 
to us.” 

“ Never, father; since I shall always love you 
just as much as ever. Yes; to leave home is a sad 
law. But it is written : ‘ Thou shalt leave thy 

father and thy mother/ Have not the birds to fly 
from the nest? Some day or other I shall have to 
leave home and found a family of my own.” 

“ Evidently. But Otto is not the only one who 
loves you. I know an honest fellow . . .” 

“ It is useless saying more, father. You mean 
Lieutenant Charbalye ? He is your fancy and 
Jacques’ too. But I tell you I don’t love him. You 
would not, surely, condemn me to a marriage in 
which affection was not shared ? ” 

“ You would not have flown so far away from 
home.” 

“ There are no frontiers in the case of either affec- 
tion or memory.” 

“ Oh ! yes, there are. You will be lost to us and 
to your native country.” 

She collected her thoughts, and then said, reli- 
giously : 

“ My native land ! But I shall take it with me, 
make it known and loved. And thus I shall serve 
it better than by living peaceably in a house in 
Amiens.” 

“You will serve it better by becoming a Prus- 


18 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


sian? And what about your sons? — your sons 
who will be born foreigners, subservient to the laws 
of Berlin, — your sons who will one day, perhaps, 
bear arms against everything which you love — and 
abandon so cheerfully ! ” 

“ My sons, — no, no ! ” 

“Heedless girl! To-day hides to-morrow from 
you. Behind Hegel there is Moltke. But look and 
reflect. It is not a Hessian you would marry but 
a Prussian, for, since the Treaty of Prague, Elec- 
toral Hesse no longer exists. Prussia extends as 
far as the Maine. And do you know what Prussia, 
for the past sixty years, has desired and patiently, 
tenaciously prepared for? The revenge for Jena. 
Hodie mihi, eras tibi! Violence engenders violence. 
To them we are the hereditary enemy, — the Erb- 
feind, as you say. Certainly Otto does not hate us ; 
on the contrary. The Rudheimers have always 
loved France, and they deserve praise for so doing. 
For France has not always loved Marburg. Ask 
your grandfather about that and 1807. He was 
there.” 

He addressed his concluding words to the Major 
who, out of discretion, had withdrawn and, con- 
cluding that the discussion was nearing its end, was 
now returning, after having walked round the green- 
house alongside the basins. These encircled the 
central clump, the miniature virgin forest, and 
formed a brilliant girdle. All the flowers of June 
— red, pink, yellow, blue and white — ornamented 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 19 

the borders there, in tufts, rows and mosaics, and 
scented the air. Mme. Ellange and Frida, hypno- 
tised, still sat listening on their bench. 

“ As to that,” confessed the Major, “ we de- 
teriorated the bastions and casemates a little. By 
heavens ! What an explosion ! Fine fortifications, 
ma foi! Swept clean away! There were frag- 
ments of the walls in all the gardens of the neigh- 
bourhood. Huge blocks, blown up as though they 
were fleas. Those devils, you see, had driven us 
out of the castle, so the Tondu retaliated by de- 
molishing every fortress on Hessian territory.” 

“ Under these conditions, Marthe,” continued M. 
Ellange, “you will understand what Hesse, now 
that it has become Prussia, feels. Rancour added 
to hatred. For Prussia hates us. I can read hatred 
in the courteous good-nature of its king, a guest 
effaced, notwithstanding Sadowa, by the Imperial 
Majesties. I can read it in the smile of that big 
white cuirassier with a face like a bulldog ready 
to bite. William and Bismarck envy and detest 
us. Did you see their exhibition? Full of cannon, 
and what cannon too ! All sizes and calibres. The 
Krupp arsenal. As much as to say : 4 Beware ! 

Whose turn is it now?’ Victory has given them 
confidence in their strength. Appetite has come 
with their teeth. You allow your dream to blind 
your eyes. Look at the horizon ! Yes, open a map 
of Europe, sapristi! The progress they have made 
is startling. The Germanic Confederation is 


20 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


buried. Germany is no longer at Vienna but at 
Berlin. Holstein, Sleswig, Hanover, Electoral 
Hesse, the Duchy of Nassau and Frankfort are 
henceforth Prussian, and Prussia is at the head of 
the Confederation of the North. The Southern 
States are uncertain and distracted by dissensions. 
You tell me that I paint too black a picture? No, 
no, my child. War is inevitable. Whether it will 
come to-morrow or in twenty years, I know not. 
But one day it will come ! And on that day . . .” 

“ I don’t want to think of it. It is impossible.” 

“ History has its laws and events take their 
course. Nothing can stop them. Prussia is grow- 
ing. Let any one who stands in her way look out! 
After Denmark, after Austria, it will be France’s 
turn.” 

“ Let them come,” chuckled the Major. 

The Imperial Procurator took up his historical 
theme again. 

“ Oh ! my mind is easy as regards that ! People 
think twice before they measure themselves with a 
Napoleon. But anyway, whatever Marthe may 
say, it is possible. And it is my duty to make her 
see all the consequences of such an act. I no longer 
appeal to her heart but to her patriotism and reason.” 

The grandfather pointed out to the father his 
daughter’s wrinkled brow, her sad but obstinate 
eyes. 

“ Then the case is heard,” he said. “ You can 
conclude.” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 21 


“It is true ? cried M. Ellange, sorrowfully. 
“ Your mother and I have loved you and brought 
you up only to lose you? No, that shall not be. 
We will not let you bring about your own unhap- 
piness.” 

“My happiness, Father! The happiness of my 
life. I love Otto with all my soul. He returns my 
love. It is that which gives me the strength to 
struggle against you, however painful that may be. 
Why should I sacrifice a certainty of obtaining joy 
through fear of sorrows which perhaps will never 
come? A Frenchwoman I am, — a Frenchwoman 
in heart I shall remain. And your daughter ever, — 
your grateful daughter.” 

“ Wait a while. It is an act of madness.” 

“Are you going to live my life? You tell me 
that I shall be unhappy. Well, let us admit that. 
But I shall be a thousand times more so in relin- 
quishing Otto’s love, in growing old alone, far from 
him.” 

“ Who can say what the morrow will bring 
forth?” 

“ And you, father, what would you say if I 
thought that, loving mother as you did, you were 
capable of marrying another woman? . . . No, I 
alone will be responsible for my conduct; I alone 
must be the judge.” 

“ You forget that, in the absence of respect, you 
owe me obedience. I shall oppose this marriage.” 

“ You will not drive me to extremities. You will 


22 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


not force me to employ the means which the Code 
gives me.” 

“ Marthe ! ” exclaimed M. Ellange in a hard tone. 

And the pained voice of the mother echoed: 

“ Marthe ! ” 

“ Pardon, father, but I shall resort to the sum- 
monses, 1 if necessary.” 

M. Ellange clenched his fists and, sternly regard- 
ing his daughter, defied her. Silently, she braved 
the look. Then the father’s anger subsided and he 
was filled with bitterness. 

“ Marthe,” he said, “ you pain me terribly ! ” 

An abyss separated them. Painfully he meas- 
ured the eternal disagreement, the fatal gulf which 
lies between two generations : the old people turned 
towards yesterday, the young ones towards to-mor- 
row. With his whole strength he held on to the 
past, clung to the present, from which — rushing to 
the future — she was detaching herself. They 
ceased to see what, taking things as a whole, united 
them, and turned over and over again in their minds, 
down to the very smallest detail, that which divided 
them. They were doubtful, at that moment, of 
their very affection for each other. And whilst he 
regarded her as ungrateful, she accused him, with 
rancour, of egoism. 

Nervously, the Major was lashing with the end 

1 The three sommations which the French law entitles sons 
and daughters who are of age to serve upon parents who 
refuse to give their consent to a marriage. — Translator. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 23 


of his stick an innocent arborescent fern. But as 
this was quite ineffectual he coughed and said with 
authority : 

“ Lucien, my boy, my consent is as necessary as 
yours, isn’t it? You set me on one side, but I’m 
the one who has a right to the first word.” 

M. Ellange, troubled, contemplated him. He had 
for his father a veneration which, after it had 
reached its culminating point, age was diminishing. 
The old man was declining. What was he going to 
say? 

The Major tapped Marthe’s cheek. 

“ There, little girl, — there’s my benediction. I 
authorise this marriage. War, frontiers, and races, 
— all that is well known. But in reality there are 
only men and women, — everywhere the same. And 
you may believe me when I tell you that I’ve seen 
a fair number of them. You love each other, — 
that’s the essential point. Love makes up for every- 
thing.” 

And turning towards M. Ellange he added : 

“ Learn that, conscript.” 

The Procurator sought in his wife’s eyes for as- 
sistance. But Mme. Ellange, conquering her agita- 
tion, could only stammer : 

“ Listen, Lucien. Since Marthe has carefully 
reflected? ... As for me, terrible though this 
separation will be . . .” 

Already her daughter was seated beside her, en- 
circling her waist with a coaxing arm. M. Ellange, 


24 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


with a reproving air, indicated some passers-by who 
were noticing them. 

“ Come along, let us go further off. This scene 
is ridiculous.” 

A terrible struggle was taking place within him. 
Silently, in a group, they took a few steps. At last 
M. Ellange broke the heavy silence. 

“ Very well ! You all desire it. I give way.” 

“Ah! Father . . ” 

“ But against my will and convinced . . .” 

Clasping her hands, Marthe exclaimed : 

“ Torture me no more ! ” 

He inclined with an ill grace. 

“ It is over. You can marry when you like. In 
warning you I have carried out my duty.” 

He was so agitated that, against all the rules of 
decorum, he took his wife by the arm and dragged 
her along, but not without giving himself the pleas- 
ure of adding : 

“Not a sign of Otto! All that was doubtless 
arranged ! ” 

“ I swear to you . . .” 

Ironically, he drew forth his watch. 

“ A quarter to seven. The only thing we’ve got 
to do is to get to the second meeting-place. See 
you presently, then, if we lose each other again.” 

They walked on ahead. It had been arranged 
that, should they not be able to meet sooner, they 
were to dine together at the Russian restaurant, as 
it was quite possible that until then Otto’s time 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 25 


would be taken up with official visits. Marthe 
stepped along joyously, side by side with Frida, who 
was still pale owing to the shock she had received. 
Behind them came the Major, with his head tower- 
ing above them. Proudly thrusting out his chest 
and sniffing the warm air, in which the setting sun 
suspended a golden dust, he felt that he was living 
a glorious hour. Purple clouds floated in the dis- 
tance. A continuous roar rose from the Champ-de- 
Mars en fete . One might have supposed that it 
was the evening of a victory. 

“ Otto ! ” cried Marthe. 

She had caught sight of him at the corner of the 
sea-water Aquarium. His tall figure stood out in 
the declining light. She loved everything about 
him : the swing of his robust fists and broad shoul- 
ders, the virile and reposeful air of his face en- 
framed in a red beard, the ruddiness of his moist 
lips, his clear blue eyes, and his ample forehead 
similar to alabaster. Time and place no longer 
existed. 

“ My darling ! ” exclaimed Otto, pressing her 
hands. His eyes questioned her anxiously. She 
felt his dear thought descend upon her. 

“ You can write to your father; nothing remains 
to be done but to fix the date/’ 

Their arms touched, and it seemed to them that 
they were but one in body. Along they walked to- 
gether, insensible to everything but their ecstasy. 
They were alone. Frida and the Major were oblit- 


26 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


erated. Later on they would find them, — enter 
into reality again. At present their dream filled 
the world. The setting sun was more beautiful to 
them than the dawn. 

“ Where are we ? ” inquired Marthe. 

They were following a steep slope, beneath a 
vaulted roof through which water was oozing. 
Every now and then, behind sheets of thick glass, 
unreal visions appeared before their eyes : anfractu- 
osities of reefs, sea-weeds waving in glaucous water, 
mosses, strange bushes with leaves which moved, — 
an entire viscous flora, and, grazing with its tail 
the red sponges of madreporaria, a monstrous fish 
which slipped along, with the flash of a fin and a 
jewelled stomach ... In the depths of the earth 
and the sea, they wandered amidst scenes of the 
Apocalypse. It enveloped and obsessed them, 
roared above their heads. At times it appeared in 
its entirety between rocks and a flashing crevasse 
. . . There was a moving mass of hideous beasts ; 
a confp 1 of living vegetable matter, with shadows 
and f . — the whole of the unknown and the 

infinite ... A sense of anguish oppressed them, - 
an indefinite and delicious fear, mingled, neverthe- 
less, with the feeling that they were two and that 
they were strong. 

On once more, at the exit to the cavern, coming 
into the light of day, and into the presence of the 
movement and noise of the world, they took breath. 
They re-discovered the Universe. The lawn before 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART Tl 


them was a green savanna, a poplar tree, a whole 
forest. Their blood coursed triumphantly through 
their veins. The sky, a very pale green in the west, 
had become the darkest amethyst at the zenith. 
Their moist foreheads and hands felt the approach 
of the caress of night. Night — still invisible — 
mingled with the last reflections of day. But every 
one already felt its presence and summoned it. 

When the lovers passed in front of the building 
where the humming birds were housed, the charm- 
ing little creatures were beginning, in their tall glass 
cages, to go to sleep. A few, with feeble cries, were 
still fluttering about, their sparkling wings resem- 
bling flying rubies, emeralds and sapphires — pre- 
cious stones which one by one melted into nothing. 

One by one the lights began to come out in the 
darkness, and from all sides arose the sound of 
human voices, songs and bands. Soon the deep blue 
velvety sky was entirely covered, as though scattered 
with diamonds. Paris, in the distance, was lighting 
up. The exhibition formed a single con -ation. 
There were lights everywhere, — in festo geo- 
metrical lines, garlands and bouquets. Rockets 
went up, bursting into balls and raining sparks. 
Huge lighthouses, revolving and fixed, shot forth 
long yellow streaks of light ... It was a halluci- 
natory and sudden piece of magic, clothed in the daz- 
zling brilliancy of a fairy tale. 

“ Babylon ! ” thought Otto. Buried in the crowd, 
they advanced towards their destiny. 


28 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ My darling ! ” said Otto from time to time. 

“ My darling ! ” replied Marthe. 

Then they became silent, the better to relish their 
happiness. 


II 


The servant placed upon the table the hollow dish 
upon which was piled the steaming pyramid of 
loeberknodel. 

“ They are magnificent,” declared the pastor. 
“ Did you preside at their preparation, Marthe ? ” 

“Who else could have done so?” cried Frida 
Lehmann, enthusiastically. 

The pastor wagged his head. 

“ Oh ! I know quite well. There is not the 
equal of our dear daughter in any household in 
Marburg.” 

His light eyes, in a large fat face, sparkled with 
joy. His large white beard, cut square, like Otto’s, 
spread out on his napkin, which, in order to pro- 
tect his best garments, he had slipped between the 
collar of his long frock-coat and his waistcoat. 
Rudheimer did not look his sixty years. His shoul- 
ders were square, his complexion florid, his air cor- 
dial, in spite of the authority attached to his min- 
istry. 

“Magnificent!” repeated the pastor’s wife. 
“Our little Marthe is now quite an accomplished 
housewife.” 

“ Thanks to your teaching, mother.” 

Frau Rudheimer, wearing a puce-coloured silk 
39 


30 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


bodice on which reposed three festoons of a heavy- 
gold chain with flat links, and whose double chin 
folded on to a large cameo-brooch which ornamented 
her collar, accepted the compliment modestly. With 
the same affectionate look she took in her son and 
daughter-in-law, who, radiating happiness and 
health, formed a fine couple. Any prejudices which 
she may have had — her fear of French fri- 
volity, mockery and independence, — had vanished. 
Marthe had, in short, fashioned herself in strict 
conformity with her conjugal existence. She 
brought to bear upon it the seriousness and modesty 
of a true German. She listened to advice with 
deference and followed it with good humour . . . 
Whilst slowly eating, Frau Rudheimer praised her 
for the correct preparation of the forcemeat balls. 
Only an expert hand could have thus amalgamated 
the bread, the milk, the calf’s liver, the suet, the 
eggs and the flour, without forgetting the onions, 
parsley, garlic, thyme and nutmeg. ... It was in- 
deed perfect. 

“ Is it not, Frida? ” 

Fraulein Lehmann admitted the fact without 
difficulty, and even found a flattering word for the 
succulence of the soup in which these melting loeber- 
knodel had cooked. And, leaning back in her chair, 
with its carved wooden back, she thus summed up 
the feeling of every one ! 

“ How agreeable it is, my dear friends, to have 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 31 


such a family gathering as this and to taste a per- 
missible joy on so fine a fete day! ” 

Spring entered through the open window. A 
marvellous change had taken place in the weather 
after the severe winter, with its snow and fog. The 
sound of Easter bells came through the already 
warm air, for this end of April, as Otto remarked, 
was astonishingly mild. The scent of the gardens 
of Marburg, where the trees, like large pink and 
white bouquets, were everywhere in flower, was 
wafted from the side of the hill. They could not 
see, from their seats, the old quarter of the Bur- 
gerstrasse overhanging the town; but they could 
imagine the ancient little city climbing the steep 
slope with its venerable houses, the picturesque mass 
of its gables and turrets, its enclosures and parks, 
and, flowing at the bottom, the blue Lahn, with the 
two towers of St. Elizabeth launching their spires 
heavenward like prayers. The three Rudheimers 
and Frida felt a gentle emotion stir them on calling 
this image to their minds. This was their native 
land, the blessed place of their childhood. They 
loved these trees and these stones, which had seen 
them born and grow up, — these trees and stones 
among which they were peaceably growing old and 
which would see them die. All these things, pos- 
sessed of souls, had been loved and contemplated 
before them by their parents and grand-parents, who 
had also come under their charm. Thus had been 


32 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


formed, thus had been perpetuated between this 
landscape full of recollections and those who now 
lived there a solid chain, the heavy weight of which 
each bore cheerfully. 

Although Marthe had not the same reasons for 
feeling affected, she unreservedly relished the joy 
of that minute. She gave a thought to the mem- 
bers of her own family and imagined the occupation 
of each at that moment. What were they doing? 
She calculated the difference in the hours, for never 
now did her acts concord with theirs. . . . But 
what did the vain tick-tack of clocks signify, pro- 
vided that hearts always beat in unison? Doubt- 
less her people were leaving church after mass. She 
could see her mother walking majestically along, 
leaning on the arm of the Imperial Procurator. 
The fulness of the crinoline obliged them to keep 
their distance; the points of the lace basquines stood 
out on the rustling silk, which bulged like a bell. 
Behind them came Louis, in his fashionably cut 
coat. He was thrusting out his chest, and had 
the air of saying: “ Signed Dusautoy.” Jacques, 
whose gallooned kepi made him taller than his 
brother, and who looked exceedingly smart in his 
bran new lieutenant’s uniform, on which the Mexico 
medal shone, strode along, curling his moustache 
and saluting the ladies. The Major would be 
found in the Rue des Trois Cailloux counting his 
hundred paces. 

How far off it all was! She could discover no 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 33 


change in her affection, for she possessed one of 
those hearts which give themselves once for all, and 
on which neither distance nor absence has any in- 
fluence. She asked herself if it were not another 
person who had thus crossed so many times, on Sun- 
days, the narrow little Cathedral Square ; — she or 
another who, in the lofty nave filled with song and 
light, had followed the touching service ; — she or 
another who had passed and motioned to all those 
people whose names and faces were so familiar to 
her but whose bodies now seemed abolished ; — she 
or another who had occupied, in the familiar and 
silent home, that Louis XVI wainscotted bedroom, 
the greenish windows of which looked on to the 
Boulevard du Mail? 

Her real existence dated from the day on which 
she entered Otto’s house. In changing from one 
country to another had she not found a new family 
'and a new fatherland? ... To her the past existed 
only in an affectionate recollection of her grand- 
father, mother, father and brothers. ... As re- 
gards the remainder of her previous life, nothing re- 
mained save a clear-cut vision, but one as detached 
from her and as dry as the bark which falls from 
the verdant trunks of plane-trees. It seemed to her 
that she possessed a new skin, and that, whether 
looking backwards or around her, she looked upon 
the world with different eyes. 

Through a mullioned window, enframing a large 
expanse of sky, she perceived in the distance the 


34 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Hessian territory, with its blue line of forests and 
mountains. It seemed to her that she had never 
known any other horizon. Much more than the 
cold narrow streets of Amiens and the flat valley of 
the Somme did she love the tortuous lanes of Mar- 
burg, its steep ascents and flights of steps. Here 
and there, between the polished cobblestones, grass 
was sprouting. As to sidewalks, there were none. 
In the centre of each thoroughfare either the greasy 
water from kitchens or the rain water trickled or 
rushed along. There was so little space between the 
houses that their summits touched. Corpulent, 
leaning and squat, with pots of flowers adding a 
touch of green or red to their black stone fagades, 
they had the air of very old people standing badly 
in line. Some drew up their lean figures under 
gables with tiers which capped them with pointed 
bonnets ; others, broad and low, squatted down, un- 
der projecting roofs, in dirty coloured dresses, — 
ancient coatings of dark ochre, faded apple green 
and pink changed to yellow. At times the fresh 
foliage of a nasturtium twined around delicate 
Gothic columns. Birds in cages chirruped on win- 
dow-sills. Here and there on cracked walls and 
Gothic galleries were sculptured beams, grimacing 
sign-boards suspended from iron bars, or gargoyles 
representing chimerical animals with wide-open 
mouths. Rare shops, resembling mousetraps, in- 
vited you to enter their dark interiors, level with 
the pavement. From the thirteenth to the eight- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 35 


eenth century, from the top to the bottom of the 
hill, ancestral mansions had succeeded each other, 
and which still witnessed to the past. The castle of 
the Dukes of Thuringe dominated the whole with 
its lordly mass. 

When taking a walk amidst this architectural 
labyrinth, Marthe figured to herself that she was 
wandering in a legendary world. Scattered here 
and there were gardens, in which lime-trees or the 
straight blackness of a yew towered above the sum- 
mits of the buildings. Grasses decked the ruin of 
a wall and on the top reddened the fine stalks of 
parietaria. A lizard darted under a velvety brown 
moss. Then she would step on to a post, or else, at 
a turning, stop. Suddenly the whole panorama of 
Marburg was stretched out before her, — the houses 
tier above tier, the winding, glittering Lahn below, 
with its surrounding fields and alleys, and the pleas- 
ant view of neighbouring ridges ; the Augustenberg, 
the Landberg, the Frauenberg and the Kirchspitze. 
. . . So great a harmony, so sweet a character of 
peace and nobility enveloped these spots that in- 
vincibly they evoked, in Marthe’s memory, one of 
those landscapes which we see in the pure pictures 
of the early Italian painters: a fortified town of 
Italy, suspended on some mountain side in Tuscany 
or Umbria. . . . These were corners of dreamland 
in which, when young, she loved to place a life, 
and where, behold, she was now living her own ! 

“ And now,” inquired Frida, mindful of her be- 


36 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


setting sin, “ what dish is worthy of crowning the 
feast? ” 

“ Are you not ashamed, dear Fraulein Lehmann,” 
said Herr Rudheimer, jokingly, “ to celebrate the 
resurrection of our Lord in so material a manner? 
Can you really have the vestige of an appetite left? ” 

“ That depends on the entremets,” she replied. 
“ I must confess that looking for the eggs under the 
box-trees of the labyrinth has made me ferociously 
hungry. Diabolically, Otto strewed them about all 
the walks in the garden. I collected a fairly good 
number.” 

She pointed to a pile of coloured sugar eggs on 
the sideboard, — eggs of all sizes, from that of an 
ostrich to those of the lapwing. Watching over 
them, with ears erect, was a cardboard hare, which 
she was very proud of having discovered among the 
cabbages in the kitchen-garden. 

Since her departure for France in 1859, this was 
the first Easter fete she had spent in Marburg. Ten 
years older, she imagined she was thirty years 
younger, — that she had become a child again. Her 
child-like soul was visible in the candour of her eyes. 
She had very quickly become accustomed again to 
the old atmosphere, to those customs which she had 
but momentarily thrown aside, and which, by a 
thousand invisible bonds, are attached to the blood. 
Her vivacity, like her breadth of mind, due to the 
opening up of another horizon and contact with 
another people, had slackened, had contracted to the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 37 


dimensions of her original circle. Dulled, incuri- 
ous, she read no more, thought less, and had become 
once more, during the year she had reinhabited 
Marburg, a provincial old maid. She had followed 
Marthe there in the spring of 1868, the date of the 
marriage. 

Frau Rudheimer winked in the direction of the 
kitchen door, and indicating the servant who ap- 
peared with a large soup tureen, said : 

“ Ah ! Ah ! Frida, let us wager that this is a 
Biersuppe.” 

But Fraulein Lehmann smiled at this jest. No, 
delicious as a good beer soup might be when cooked 
with plenty of butter and sugar, flour and cream, 
beaten eggs and raisins, a little vanilla and lemon ; — 
no, it could not be that! . . . Marthe could never 
have committed the heresy of terminating a meal 
with a dish that ought to come at the beginning. 
And Frida, counting on one of those “ delicacies ” 
in the preparation of which her pupil excelled, licked 
her lips in advance. 

“ A simple Dampf undein,” said Marthe gaily, 
“ but prepared in the Silesian manner.” 

“That is also estimable, is it not?” exclaimed 
Otto, as he fetched from the dessert table a venera- 
ble long-necked bottle of Rhine wine, with the wax 
so old that it could no longer be distinguished from 
the dusty covering. 

With a spoon Marthe dexterously cut into the 
dome of light pastry, cooked in steam. 


$8 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ Will that do? ” she asked Fraulein Lehmann as 
she handed her a huge plateful. “A little more 
sauce? ” 

And with a liberal hand she poured the melted 
butter on to the enormous slice. Meanwhile Otto, 
holding the bottle between his knees, carefully un- 
corked it. Then, having smelt at the cork, he 
slowly poured the topaz-coloured wine into the en- 
graved green Bohemian glasses, at the same time 
respectfully announcing : 

“ Liebfraumilch, 1844.” 

“ The year of my birth,” murmured Marthe. 

All, raising their glasses, smelt at the wine’s 
bouquet, whilst Herr Rudheimer, as in reason 
bound, proposed a solemn toast. Looking at his 
son and turning towards Marthe, he said in a 
slightly trembling voice: 

“To another and as happy a birth ! ” 

She bowed her head and all drank in silence. 

When they had set down their glasses Herr Rud- 
heimer drew his wife’s attention, by means of a 
glance, to Otto and Marthe, whose eyes had not left 
each other. With a grave smile on their faces, they 
were following together the great road of the future. 
Doubtless, full of religious faith in life, they were 
imagining in the distance, gambolling before them, 
the son who would be born of their flesh and who 
in his turn would bear the name and soul of a Rud- 
heimer? . . . Then, like a reflection, the same 
smile came over the faces of the pastor and his wife, 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 39 


animating their pale features, fatigued by age. 
That minute was so rich in thought, so consoling 
and so deep that no word could express it. 

But Frida, after a fairly long interval, broke the 
charm. 

“ In my turn I will propose other toasts. Why 
should we drink only one? We mustn’t stop when 
we’re on so good a road. My dear Marthe, my 
dear Otto ... to the health of all the little Rud- 
heimers who will make their appearance! ... At 
least, I hope so ! ” 

All then laughed heartily. And Herr Rudheimer 
declared that it was evident, judging by the turn 
of Fraulein Lehmann’s wit, how much she had fre- 
quented good French — he might even say Gallic — 
society. 

But Otto had now risen, and, pouring out a 
bumper to each, proposed that they should pledge 
the One who dispensed all good things, the Lord 
who had brought them together and in whose hand 
their fate rested. He lent a favourable ear to all 
just prayers, under whatever name he was evoked, 
provided they were offered up with sincerity and 
fervour. Thus spoke Otto, in a spirit of compre- 
hension and tolerance, as much for the Catholic 
Marthe and the Calvinist Frida as for themselves, 
Lutherans. Herr Rudheimer, imitated by all, 
pushed back his chair and, uoright, sang the words 
of the psalm, beginning: 

Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott. . . . 


40 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Affectionately, Marthe had taken Otto’s hand. 
She pressed it within hers. Never had any dis- 
agreement arisen nor would arise between them on 
that subject. She was grateful to her husband and 
father-in-law for never having sought to interfere 
with her religious views. She continued to carry 
out regularly her Sunday duties at the little church 
where the Latin form of worship was celebrated. 
Hardly more than four or five hundred worshippers 
assembled there, the eight thousand other inhabit- 
ants of Marburg all professing — with the exception 
of a few dissenters like Frida — the same faith as 
the Rudheimers. Sometimes Otto accompanied his 
wife to mass, and more often still she followed him 
to the service at Saint Elizabeth’s, — especially 
when Herr Rudheimer was preaching. In spite of 
the coldness of the ceremony, the old cathedral, 
consecrated to protestantism for the past four cen- 
turies, still exhaled that catholic ardour whence, all 
in one piece, and the first of the Gothic churches 
of Germany, before Mainz, before Koln, it had 
sprung. It was still so beautiful, there arose from 
its three naves so pure, its forest of columns, and 
its luminous stained-glass windows such an impres- 
sion of peace, grandeur and harmony that Marthe’s 
happiness expanded there more freely. Thus, not- 
withstanding the difference in the communion, they 
still communicated in the beauty of art and in the 
profundity of religion. . . . Did they not aim at 
the same goal? , . , Consequently what did the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 41 


form signify? Love dazzled, with an equal light, 
their minds, eager to become one. . . . 

When, after having conducted their parents home, 
Otto and Marthe, in company with Frida found 
themselves on the uneven pavement of the Engel- 
gasse, they decided to descend as far as the Wehrda 
road, in order to enjoy the last beautiful hours of 
the day walking in the country. But Fraulein 
Lehmann began to groan. Her stomach! . . . 
Short-winded, she feared the rough way back. She 
would call, in passing, at the house of her friend, 
the wife of Dr. Trammer, Lector publicus der 
Musik und Universitats Musik Direktor. For the 
digestion there was nothing like the beatitude of 
hearing Herr Trammer execute one of Bach’s 
fugues on the piano. . . . Hands crossed on the 
stomach and head leaning on the back of a velvet- 
covered chair, — what a good position that was for 
wandering, in liberty, in the infinite lands of reverie ! 
That was worth all the walks to Wehrda. 

On leaving her, Marthe embraced her old friend 
tenderly. But that did not prevent her, as soon as 
the door was closed, from seizing Otto’s arm and 
pressing it against her heart. 

“ How glad I am,” she said, “ to be alone with 
you at last ! ” 

However, Frida’s presence had at first been in- 
finitely useful to her, although she had never real- 
ised it, so much was she absorbed by her affection 
for Otto. Fraulein Lehmann h&d softened the first, 


42 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


trying hours away from the old home. She had 
acclimatised Marthe to usages which, had she been 
left to herself, she would have found' much more 
angular. Thanks to Frida, a little of the atmos- 
phere of the past and of Amiens had followed her, — ■ 
just sufficient to assist her in becoming accustomed 
to the present, to those manners which she had seen 
but imperfectly during her preceding sojourns, and 
to which it was now necessary she should strictly 
adhere, in order to be happy. She had come to the 
wise determination never to draw comparisons, — 
that was the surest means of avoiding regret. She 
had endeavoured to understand the why and the 
wherefore of each thing and being; and conse- 
quently she had succeeded in extracting from things 
as from beings the good which they contained. 
Convinced that happiness consisted in being satis- 
fied with what one possessed, especially when one 
at last possessed the thing one had so much desired, 
she limited her joy to making Otto content, and 
all the more willingly since she experienced that 
perfect happiness, the supreme dream of every 
woman, — that of being loved unreservedly. 

Along the narrow street, intersected here and 
there by steps, a crowd in its Sunday clothes was 
marching: Hessian foot-soldiers, University pro- 
fessors, and students with Absalom-like hair. Many 
of the last named bore on their foreheads the scars 
of their duels, and proudly they displayed in their 
caps, which varied according to their associations. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 43 


the colours of their beer-houses. The April sun 
covered the entire town with a mantle of light, 
woven with so virgin a gold that it gave the oldest 
faces among the houses an air of festiveness and to 
the promenaders the radiance of dawn. It was the 
spring-tide of souls and of the earth. 

As they proceeded on their way Otto and Marthe 
were continually exchanging salutations. The Rec- 
tor and his wife passed along in a track of respect; 
a grammar-school professor gave way to some 
holder of one of the chairs of the four faculties; 
or some official of the old Court, having retained 
his position in the new Prussian administration, 
measured out inclinations of the head to his sub- 
ordinates. A narrow hierarchy, against which 
Marthe, formerly so rebellious, no longer thought 
of striving, regulated all relations. Otto, the only 
son of an old family of pastors, Privatdocent of the 
Faculty of Medicine, and above all the best known 
medical practitioner of the town, enjoyed great con- 
sideration in this little Lutheran and university 
centre. As in many other towns of Germany, ex- 
istence turned around the academic city. Founded 
in 1527, a hundred years before that of Giessen, 
its neighbour and rival, the University was the heart 
and brain of Marburg. 

Marthe had ended by being as familiar with the 
customs of this little world as the sister of a first- 
year student named Fuchs, who was intoxicated 
with servitude and pride. The “ fox ” of the Mar- 


44 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


burg beer-houses, where a beer already renowned in 
the days of Erasmus was drunk in litre tankards, 
was the “ melon ” of the Saint Cyi - promotions. . . . 
Her brother had formerly related these tribulations 
to her. There was the same obedience due to older 
students, the same pranks and practical jokes. . . . 
She re-discovered, in her husband’s recollections, 
that curious assemblage of passive discipline and 
grotesque authority which provided amusement for 
both classes of youths, — that of the German Uni- 
versities being still more militarised than that of 
the French military school. She knew in detail the 
composition of each Burschenschaft, and in what 
respect these middle-class corporations differed from 
the Verein, into which only noblemen were ad- 
mitted. She was acquainted with the colours of 
their scarves and caps, the order observed in their 
processions, the smoke-filled rooms which served as 
their headquarters, as a storeroom for their flags 
and as a meeting-place for their carousals. She was 
aware of the uproar which took place there when a 
Commers summoned the Burschenschaft to a solemn 
fete. The drinking songs followed one after the 
other and the voices, taking up the refrain, made the 
window-panes of the beer-house tremble again and 
again. Those were the days of great orgies, when 
the ground was strewn with drunken sleepers. 

She was astonished that so cultivated a people, 
and whose great genius she admired in philosophy, 
literature and music, could form its youth with such 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 45 


low pleasures. Twice a week, roared at the top 
of the voice amidst the silence of the winter even- 
ings, did she hear the regulation couplet — Gaude- 
amus igitur — juvenes dum sumus . . . rise from 
the neighbouring Kneipe ; or else the chorus whose 
words, in spite of herself, she scanned: — 

Sa! Sa! Sa! German brothers, 

Send forth a joyous hurrah, 

Sing your songs the gayest, 

And let him with a voice be heard. 

Here, in the midst of beer jugs, 

The sickened heart finds hope and health. 

Oh ! divine beer, 

The delight of life, 

The giver of a thousand joys! 

Otto, recollecting his own follies, motioned in- 
dulgently with his head. Had these prevented him 
from loving science and succeeding in life? It was 
in rubbing shoulders at the heavy tables of the 
Kneipe that the brotherly camaraderie of those 
students who had come from every corner of Ger- 
many had been cemented. It was labour and pleas- 
ure in common which, from town to town and from 
state to state, had woven the solid bond between 
brains and hearts. All the universities formed but 
a single crucible, in which the genius of the nation, 
in a state of formation, bubbled. From the dross 
and pure metal would be forged, would issue forth, 
as a whole, the teutonic fatherland. . . . But, none 
the less, Marthe gave a start when the brutal up- 
roar broke upon their quiet, lamp-lit evening in- 


46 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


timacy, either when she was playing to her husband 
his favourite sonatas, Beethoven or Haydn, or con- 
tinuing the reading of some book which she had 
begun. Every evening, when she did not open her 
piano, she read aloud, alternating German classics 
with the latest Parisian novels. She was aston- 
ished that she did not take the same interest in the 
latter as she had formerly done, accustomed as she 
now was to think in German and to employ her 
mother tongue only when she wrote to her family, 
or when, from time to time, she spoke with Frida 
or Otto. The latter often begged her to speak 
French, in order that he might be kept in practice. 
But ordinarily it was always in German that they 
exchanged their impressions, — wove between them 
the fine tapestry of life, with its thousand little 
threads. It was in German also that they com- 
mented on their reading, widened the common field 
on which their minds found a harvest, and where, 
happy in the feeling that they had each other’s con- 
fidence, that they were discoverers together and 
were reciprocally enriched, they wandered. 

“ Halt ! ” commanded Otto. “ Turn and look ! 
Isn’t that equal to the prettiest corner of France? ” 

They had reached the rose garden which sur- 
rounds the Cathedral, and where the buds had al- 
ready begun to make their appearance. The tall 
spires, surmounted by the knight and the star, stood 
out, jet black, against the indigo-coloured sky. The 
fresh grass was gemmed with primroses. Noisy 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 47 


sparrows settled and flew here and there in flocks. 
Their young fought on the windows, full of nests, 
on the trilobate galleries, in the hollows of the 
statues and the gargoyles. 

Docilely, Marthe turned round. Marburg lay 
spread out on the promontory of its hill, with the 
massive towers of its castle, its bell-turrets and its 
roofs. It might have been likened, with its azure 
shield, its renascent gardens and its snowy orchards, 
to the picture of an ancient town, a blue and gold 
miniature on the large page of a missal. In the 
background waved the wooded heights, the dark 
chain of mountains on which the new foliage, like 
rustling lace-work, had hardly as yet turned green. 

“ I know nothing more enchanting and more 
delicate,” she confessed. “ One can understand 
why Elizabeth of Hungary chose to end her life 
here.” 

Through everywhere encountering reminders of 
the Saint, she had come to love her sweet face. 
It was not without surprise, mingled with sympa- 
thy, that she thought of that life tormented by a 
mystic demon. She attempted to evoke the long 
face enframed by plaited tresses, the hands joined 
in prayer on the flat bodice, the eyes shining with 
faith and renunciation. ... A strange story, that 
of this child of royal blood who at fourteen years 
of age married the landgrave of Thuringe and set 
an example on the throne of all the virtues. A 
widow at twenty and despoiled by her brother-in- 


48 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


law, she refused the support of the barons, aban- 
doned her three daughters, devoted herself to the 
service of the lepers and poor of Marburg, and died 
in 1231, at twenty- four years of age, in abject and 
sublime poverty. . . . What celestial vision, what 
infatuation of the infinite ravaged this soul, a prey 
to absolute detachment from her century and the 
earth? . . . Otto, on the contrary, in the rigour of 
his protestantism, could not understand the attrac- 
tion of this romantic figure; he could understand 
neither the idolatry with which Germany, including 
Luther, had surrounded her memory, nor the Em- 
peror Frederic II laying a golden crown on her 
reliquary, nor the affluence of pilgrims around her 
venerated remains. , . . 

Limited by his scientific education, as well as by 
the austerity of his faith, to that which his reason 
alone could admit, he laughed at the idea of so- 
called miracles and at the story of the saint’s body 
distilling a perfumed oil. ... As in the days of the 
Reform, he felt that he possessed something of the 
savage soul of Philip of Hesse, when he tore away 
the relics from the sanctuary. ... In this matter 
he retained the disputatious severity which had ani- 
mated his ancestors in the far-off days when the 
Castle of Marburg had hummed with meetings, 
when, in the Knights Chamber, Luther and 
Zwingle, Melanchthon and QEcolampadius disser- 
tated on points of doctrine. . . . 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ it is a long time since you men- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 49 


tioned St. Elizabeth. . . . Let us wager that you 
found again this morning, in the depths of a cup- 
board, M. de Montalembert’s book?” 

“ Quite true,” she said. 

Marthe laughed with a good grace, although she 
could hardly explain, in the case of so intelligent a 
man as Otto, this sort of incomprehension regarding 
a particular point. One of the rare fits of temper 
to which she had seen him give way since her ar- 
rival at Marburg had been caused by this innocent 
biography. She had brought it from Amiens, with 
a few other volumes, curious to re-read on the spot 
the history of the Saint, with whom she had become 
infatuated on the occasion of her first visit. . . . 
But coldly Otto had taken it from her hands, giving 
her Goethe’s Faust in its place. 

“ The mind,” he had said, “ must be nourished 
with marrow and not with a meagre diet.” 

And he himself had placed Montalembert on the 
topmost shelf of a dusty cupboard. She decided 
that she would put it back again that very evening. 
. . . Let Elizabeth of Hungary once more go to 
sleep in the past ! She had no desire to enter on a 
struggle, on account of another. . . . Present hap- 
piness alone counted; the essential thing was to 
preserve it intact. Her love, so robust, appeared to 
her to be as delicate as a hot-house flower. She 
spared it every shock. She tended it as though it 
were a fragile plant. 

Whilst they were directing their steps towards 


50 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the ramparts and the low gate, a very old woman 
who was passing raised her arms in the air on per- 
ceiving Otto. 

“ It is Mother Krautzheim,” said Marthe. 

“Herr doctor! Herr doctor!” stammered the 
aged dame, who was almost bent double. “ I was 
on my way to your house. The mother of the little 
one is very ill.” 

She pointed to a rolled-up form, hanging from 
her neck in a sort of rough cloth apron, which beat 
against her side. It was the child, carried in the 
Marburg fashion. Otto had never been able to get 
mothers to leave their new-born babes in their cra- 
dles, rather than trail them about in this manner, 
like animals. 

“ I’ve told you a hundred times not to carry your 
grandson in this way.” 

“ Give him to me,” said Marthe. 

Followed by the distrustful eye of the old woman, 
who regretfully gave up her charge, she raised the 
infant and, as it opened, then closed its eyes again, 
laid it to sleep in her arms. Maternally she em- 
braced this morsel of warm flesh and blood, in which 
the fire of life, like a spark under cinders, smoul- 
dered. What, she thought, would this flame be- 
come? 

“ Are you willing? ” consulted Otto. 

“ To be sure ! ” she replied. 

Spontaneously she abandoned their walk. Otto 
liked this cheerful sacrifice. Never had she mur- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 51 


mured when the necessities of his profession called 
him, at all hours of the day and night, away from 
home. By her good humour and foresight, she 
lightened his hard work. On returning he ever 
found his pipe ready and his slippers warming near 
the china stove. . . . She welcomed him with a 
tender smile, taking an interest in his patients, in 
the success of his treatment. She participated in his 
acts of charity. What profession was equal to his, 
for its constant altruism, its obscure and entire de- 
votion ? 

Without a word, they followed the old woman. 
Passing around the railings of the rose garden, they 
entered the little square which separates the Cathe- 
dral from the river. Centenary constructions bor- 
dered the narrow area: black and dismal walls, all 
emblazoned with sculptured coats-of-arms. These 
were the remains of the convent and hospital form- 
erly founded by St. Elizabeth, and which for a long 
time had served as the seat of the Grand Bailiwick 
of the Teutonic Order. They enclosed nothing 
more now than solitude and ruin. On penetrating 
it seemed as though one was entering the mouldy 
air, the darkness of a cellar. A stall backed on to 
the dark infirmary, the ornamented gable of which 
stood out against the sky. On entering this necrop- 
olis, Marthe stooped her shoulders, as though she 
felt the weight of poverty and death upon them. A 
continuous rattle came through the half-open 
door. 


52 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


When she had crossed the threshold she could, 
at first, distinguish nothing. Hardly any daylight 
entered through the window and the door, which 
the old woman had hastily pushed to, as though she 
feared that some one invisible would slip in behind 
them. Marthe first of all laid her load in the 
worm-eaten wooden cradle against which she had 
stumbled. The awakened child looked around, as- 
tonished; then, drooling, began to suck his wooden 
rattle. Hoarse and breathless, the complaint con- 
tinued to rise from the pallet which Marthe could 
now distinguish and over which Otto was leaning. 
At the bottom of the room, a candle in a copper 
candlestick, shedding a faint light, stood on the 
mantel of a high fireplace, where, at the end of an 
immense pot-hook, a very small black stew-pot was 
hanging over a peat fire. The silence, broken by 
the regular panting of the sick woman, weighed 
heavily. Otto rose, shaking his head. He was 
holding, now, the wasted wrist, feeling the pulse, 
watch in hand. Marthe looked with pity on the 
pale face lying back on the cushion, on the haggard, 
feverish eyes. 

“Well, Herr doctor ?” moaned the old grand- 
mother in her tremulous voice. 

In his rough manner, Otto recomforted her. 
Give him time to return home, and he would come 
back with a calmative draught which would work 
marvels. . . . Meanwhile, his wife would remain 
there, to look after the mother and the little one. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 53 


. . . And the milk, was there any left? . . . No? 
He would bring some back then. 

“You hear, Marthe; I shall return.” 

He gave her a significant look. . . . Let them 
at least soften this sorrowful end, assist these poor 
despairing folk! 

“ Go ! I will wait for you,” she said. 

Marthe knew the sad story of these women. 

Mother Krautzheim, penniless, lived on public 
charity, alone in the world with her grand-daughter. 
The girl, an orphan, one of the workers in a china 
manufactory, had been seduced and abandoned by 
a young man of Cassel. . . . And now the mother 
was about to die from peritonitis. . . . Only the 
old woman and the little one would be left. . . . 
Marthe dangled the medal attached to her gold 
bracelet above the cradle. The chubby baby re- 
sponded by kicking with his little legs in the swad- 
dling clothes, drooling more than ever, and laugh- 
ing heartily. His chuckling alternated with the 
low breathing of the dying mother. . . . Silent 
and with a vacant eye the grandmother sat in front 
of the hearth, watching the smoking peat. 

When Otto returned in three quarters of an hour 
with a bottle of milk and the medicine the sick 
woman, covered with perspiration, had become rest- 
less. The vomiting had come on again. . . . Un- 
conscious, she drank the sleeping mixture ; then fell 
back, as though dead. Quickly the doctor slipped 
a little money into the old woman’s hand ; then, with 


54 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


disguised haste, man and wife slowly left the room. 

The light of day appeared to them to be a de- 
liverance. 

“ Poor people ! ” said Marthe. 

And with more fervour than she had ever shown 
up to then, she again pressed her heart against her 
husband’s arm. A great desire to support herself 
against his strength came over her. She would 
have liked also to press him in her arms, with all 
her tenderness. 

“ How good you are ! ” she sighed. 

On St. Elizabeth’s Square fair, plump girls with 
little black velvet caps and short ample skirts were 
passing and singing. Their calves swelled out their 
white stockings ; their feet, in buckled shoes, tripped 
here and there. How they would dance that eve- 
ning! . . . Ardently, gravely, Marthe thought of 
the burning breath which was about to cease on the 
pallet and of the young life which lay in the cradle. 
. . . With a supple step she adapted herself to 
Otto’s slow gait ; with all her being she breathed in 
the mildness of the spring, the clear beauty of that 
Easter evening, that hour when she descended to the 
depths of human suffering and once more gained a 
foothold on the divine throne of love. 


Ill 


Hours, days and months passed, strengthening 
between them the bond of tastes and habits. Marthe 
had now become quite accustomed to her new life, — 
a real Hessian lady. She was no longer observed 
in the streets of Marburg, where, during the first 
year, her lively step and French dress had attracted 
attention. The wife of the Rector and the wife of 
the Universitats Musik Direktor bowed to the wife 
of Privatdocent Otto Rudheimer as to one of them- 
selves. She had renounced light colours and 
adopted the chestnut-coloured silk which went with 
the colour of her hair and eyes. Like Frau Rud- 
heimer she wore a gold chain crosswise and a 
brooch at her neck: a large enamel and amethyst 
medallion. On opening it, there was to be seen in- 
side, in one of the frames, a small photograph of 
Otto, and in the other, a little curl of red hair, tied 
with a blue ribbon, — a souvenir which she owed to 
the kindness of her mother-in-law. 

Just as she had become inured to all the forms 
of material existence — in the case of some of them 
it had not been without difficulty: what sleepless 
nights, for instance, she had passed on her narrow 
bed with its hard mattress, its napkins instead of 
55 


56 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


sheets and its eiderdown in place of blankets ! — so 
had she adapted herself to all the shades of moral 
existence. . . . Little by little she became impreg- 
nated with her surroundings, — that atmosphere of 
austere labour, familiar simplicity, and lutheran 
gravity. She had become more serious and re- 
flective, and, since she was severe to herself, severe 
to others. She judged French matters and the lit- 
tle family events, which were regularly announced 
to her in her mother’s and brothers’ letters, with a 
remoteness and elevation which made her more ex- 
acting. She regretted nothing of the past. Her 
existence was henceforth attached to that of Otto, 
like the ivy to a tree. 

She loved her home, Marburg and Hesse as much 
as though she had been born there. She took an 
interest in local history, in the formation and de- 
velopment of her new country, — little Thuringe 
and big Germany. She saw no further than the 
present hour. Was not the entire future contained 
in their affection ? How could anything apart from 
her home life affect her? Every sun which rose 
seemed to her a new century. Every day was a 
repetition of the one that had gone before. 

Summer had come and the university had closed 
its doors. And as Frau Rudheimer had for some 
time past complained of increasing anemia, Otto 
decided that a salt water cure would do her good. 
What had Marthe to say to the idea of taking the 
old folks to Nauheim, at the foot of Taunus? 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 57 


Afterwards, by the Mayn-Weser line, they could 
reach Frankfort, whence they would mount the 
Rhine, as far as Basel. And from there they would 
leave for Italy. . . . Unless, when at Strasburg, 
they preferred to make for Paris and Amiens? 

They were taking their coffee and milk, with 
slices of bread and honey, on the balcony of their 
dining-room when Otto, whilst filling his first pipe, 
made this proposal. 

“ Italy ! Italy ! ” unhesitatingly cried Marthe, 
clapping her hands. 

The idea of having her dear Otto more to her- 
self than ever, and amidst the wonders of such a 
journey, intoxicated her. Doubtless she was satis- 
fied with her present existence ; she shared her hus- 
band with her parents-in-law without jealousy. 
But the hours when others were present formed 
but the envelope of her happiness; — her happiness 
consisted of those which they spent alone. It was 
then that Otto showed real animation. A young 
face, ever ready to smile or laugh, was hidden under 
his ordinary appearance, under his professional 
mask. 

He was not the same man, but a big amorous 
child, whose vivacity rendered his modest tender- 
ness still more seductive. 

He took a long draw at his pipe and slowly 
puffed out the blue smoke. 

“ Italy ! ” he murmured. 

To his German eyes, accustomed to rude climates, 


58 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


this country, with its golden plains, its lovely sky, 
its towns so full of poetry and art, was an eternal 
mirage. What a joy it would be to discover all this 
together ! 

“ When shall we leave?” she cried. “To-mor- 
row? Immediately?” 

“ Give me time to finish my pipe.” 

She had risen and run to the large wardrobe in 
the corridor. What dresses should she take with 
her ? This one, — and this one too ! Muslin and 
white lace petticoats were raised in the air. . . . 

“ Ah ! here is the one I wore on that great day at 
the Exhibition when we fixed the date of our mar- 
riage. Do you remember ? ” 

“Darling! Darling!” 

“ I have never put it on since. That is two years 
ago already.” 

She threw back her head. Otto was behind her. 
She felt his beloved hands on her waist, his warm 
breath playing with the silky hair on the nape of 
her neck. He covered the amber-coloured skin be- 
low her ear with little kisses. 

“ Stop! You are tickling me! ” 

She returned all his kisses by a single kiss, and 
with an arm around his neck placed her head upon 
his shoulder. 

“ Listen. We’ll travel, on the contrary, without 
trunks. Luggage is terribly cumbersome. We’ll 
each take a handbag and you your portmanteau. 
. . . Nothing but the clothes in which we travel. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 59 


As to linen, we’ll buy it on the way. What do you 
say to that ? ” 

He laughed at an idea so impulsive in its con- 
ception, so original, and, with an eye to its prac- 
tical side, approved of it. 

“ We shall be free then and can see everything.” 

Marthe was filled with childish joy when the 
train started and the station’s red mass disappeared. 
It had been arranged that first of all they should 
pass a week at Nauheim, where, in the Park-Strasse, 
Otto had secured rooms. But her mother-in-law 
had hardly begun the treatment than the thirst for 
travelling made Marthe extremely unsettled. Otto, 
busy with his rod on the banks of the Ousa, whose 
waters swarmed with fish, would willingly have 
protracted the visit. She felt she had a grudge 
against him for taking a pleasure in which she had 
no share, and for retarding, even by a few hours, 
that which they were to enjoy together. She felt 
a desire to flee and take him with her. For the 
first time she felt that, however complete their 
union might have been up to then, it contained too 
many foreign elements. Far from his parents and 
the absorbing duties of his life, Otto would belong 
to her all the more. 

With a sigh of relief she said good-bye to the 
foaming springs which gush forth like snowy 
pyramids in the elegant yet banal park. Nauheim’s 
pretty setting, which, with its hill and its lake, she 
would have liked at another time, appeared to her 


60 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


to be full of the ennui of little watering-places, 
where sickness and nostalgia are seen on every side. 
Herr and Frau Rudheimer, waving their handker- 
chiefs on the platform, suddenly faded into the dis- 
tance and were effaced. In vain did she call to 
memory the familiar faces of the touching old 
couple, as they stood side by side; she felt no other 
emotion, at the bottom of her heart, than that which 
came from habit and which was extinguished with- 
out a shock. Did not Marburg and her parents- 
in-law form, then, an integral part of herself? . . . 
She stepped away from the carriage door and closed 
the window. They were alone. Otto was finish- 
ing the arranging of the umbrellas and iron-pointed 
sticks in the light-luggage racks. 

“ Sit down there,” she said. 

Side by side, they sat in one of the corners of the 
compartment. The landscape flew past them. It 
was a delicious sensation to feel that they were im- 
mobile, yet being speedily carried away towards an- 
other world. She raised her eyes. Her husband, 
his arm around her waist, drew her closer towards 
him. Her world was there, — she was pressing it 
in her arms. 

“ Do you know, Otto, that we are setting out for 
our honeymoon ? ” 

Contrary to custom, she had preferred, the day 
after the marriage in Amiens, to reach Marburg by 
short stages, via Strasburg, Frankfort, etc. On the 
third day she had entered her little house in the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 61 


Burgerstrasse and since then never left it. . . . 
She had decided that it would be time to travel 
later on, when she had become quite accustomed to 
her new life. . . . No dream was equal to ap- 
prenticeship to a sweet reality. Honeymoons were 
all very well, she thought, for those whose souls 
were without poetry, and who sought it far afield 
when, all the time, it was there, under their very 
eyes, in humble daily things. ... Now that they 
knew each other so well that there was nothing 
secret between them, — now that they understood 
each other by a glance, would they not enjoy those 
hours of amusement and renewal a hundred times 
better? . . . Everything would be profit to their 
minds, accustomed to think the same. 

Attracted by the magic of Italy, they decided to 
postpone their excursion on the banks of the Rhine 
until the holidays of 1870 and make straight for 
Basel. From there they made their way to Lucerne 
where the diligence, on landing at Fluelen, appeared 
to them, after the railway and the steamboat, a 
charming jump into the past. Slowly they mounted 
towards the St. Gothard Pass, the steep road wind- 
ing through narrow gorges at the bottom of which 
the blue waters of the Reuss rushed and foamed 
among the rocks. Masses of dazzling eternal snow 
were suspended on the precipitous sides of the 
mountain. Lower down, fields of a dirty yellow 
colour had crumbled away, the result of a recent 
avalanche. ... On raising their eyes, the moun- 


62 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


tain, reaching to the skies, overhung their littleness 
with its formidable white mass, its chaos of ice and 
granite ; when they were lowered, it was to measure 
the abyss. They drew near to each other with in- 
stinctive fear; face to face with the elements, they 
felt their weakness. What a little thing was human 
life and yet what a price it had! They left the 
terrible winding route with relief, and on reaching 
Faido, where Italy begins, once more breathed 
freely. The Tessin, with its enormous rocks amidst 
chestnut trees, seemed to them to be as sweet as an 
eclogue. Then the valley broadened out and de- 
scended, and they entered into the promised land. 

Henceforth they were surrounded with marvels. 
Everything amused them: the picturesqueness of 
the streets and the costumes, the cooking at the 
trattorie, the good humour and volubility of the 
people. They spent long hours in picture-galleries, 
discovering, with the same beating of the heart, 
their favourite masterpieces. Marthe was touched 
by those in which human faces lived again with the 
most intensity. Otto preferred pictures illustrating 
ceremonies, manners and history. Eruditely he ex- 
plained the details of these. They wandered about 
the rooms, according to their fancy, and without 
guides. Outside, at every street corner, there was 
again the striking evocation of former days. An- 
cient palaces resembling fortresses, churches full of 
statues and frescoes prolonged the hallucination. 
But above all they loved the sweetness of the coun- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 63 


try, that softness and that grandeur of line which 
give Italian horizons their unique character of sen- 
sual grace and beauty. 

They made the acquaintance of Venice whilst 
she was still, on account of her recent liberation, 
filled with enthusiasm, of Florence whilst she was 
still proud of the brilliancy of her capital, of 
Bologna and Rome whilst they were still under 
Papal rule but quivering with a desire to take part 
in the unitary movement. Otto took a pleasure in 
meeting, nearly everywhere, the people of mark to 
whom, thanks to Marthe’s and his own acquaint- 
ances, he had introductions. He took a passionate 
interest, like all German brains on the other side of 
the mountains, in the great national movement which 
was stirring up Italy. 

“ You must understand/’ he would say to Marthe, 
when they had conversed at the hotel, or at his 
house, with some university professor, or doctor, 
“ that above one’s native town, which is the true 
fatherland, there is a moral fatherland, a sort of 
living unity, composed of all the beings who speak 
the same language and have the same ideal. . . . 
Their agglomeration is inevitable. In spite of polit- 
ical contingencies, it must some day be realised. 
You have often expressed astonishment that a 
Hessian, a Pomeranian, a Saxon or a Bavarian can 
agree with each other, when they belong to such 
different nationalities. But you might just as well 
be astonished over the fact that Picardy, Brittany, 


64 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Anjou, Gascogne and Provence made up modern 
France. ... It is now the turn of Italy and Ger- 
many.’ ' 

She set aside these dreams, not because she failed 
to recognise that they were well-founded but be- 
cause, filled with the delights of the present, she 
would have preferred to have enjoyed merely their 
own enthusiasm. She limited her happiness to the 
love which ceaselessly sprang from the depths of 
their being, to the marvellous scenery, bathed in 
light, in the midst of which they walked. More- 
over, this intrusion of the world was accompanied 
by a formidable cortege of convulsions and wars; 
these horizons opened on a tragic story. . . . What 
struggles, blood and tears! What a formidable 
effort to bring about the slightest change ! . . . She 
would have liked time to have suspended its flight, 
so that, after having lived these hours of plenitude 
in the land of sunshine, they could have continued, 
on returning to Marburg, to live their dear little 
life of solitude and retirement in ignorance and for- 
getfulness; she would have liked an equal sun to 
have enveloped, to the close, the serenity of their 
tenderness. . . . 

When they mounted at Turin into the carriage 
which took them towards the Simplon Pass, an 
evening of magnificent splendour was declining on 
the Lombardian plain. Marthe, for no apparent 
reason, was sad. Her melancholy increased in pro- 
portion to Otto’s contentment. He rubbed his 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 65 


hands continually. . . . She contemplated him, sur- 
prised that he did not share, as usual, the same feel- 
ings as herself. . . . She could not bear him ill will 
for that. Was not her husband’s joy caused by the 
legitimate pleasure of returning to his parents and 
the scene of their love? . . . Did not his feeling 
of security arise from the confidence and comfort 
which he found in that love? . . . And yet she 
could not help mildly reproaching him for neglect- 
ing to express a regret for the two months which 
had just gone by, — that happiest period of their 
lives which was now beyond recall. . . . Doubt- 
less they would have other hours together, also 
touching. But would they find their penetration to 
be so complete, their solitude so sweet? 

“ Don’t rub your hands that way,” she said. “ It 
annoys me.” 

He looked at her, surprised. He had hardly ever 
seen her nervous. What was the matter? She 
told him. But that was not a reason for being sad. 
He laughed loudly and rubbed his hands all the 
harder. It was then that she noticed, for the first 
time, that his hands were clumsy, with square nails, 
and that on the right hand, above a broad lentigo, 
was a tuft of red hair. 

September was drawing to a close when they re- 
entered their apartment on the Burgerstrasse. It 
shone like a new pin, having been freshly waxed, 
and was pervaded with a good odour of cleanliness. 
Dahlias and roses — the last of the year — were 


66 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


blooming in the Delft vase on the dining-room table. 
Otto and Marthe’s equable life recommenced. 
Pressing letters from Amiens summoned Marthe 
there in vain ; she decided that her visit must be for 
next year. . . . After the fatigue of travelling, and 
her enervation having passed, she enjoyed the quiet- 
ness of Marburg. A warm autumn, with skies 
which had a spring-like lightness, bathed the little 
town. Repose under these conditions was infinitely 
sweet. . . . She was happy, and in being alone 
evoked more willingly between themselves the tiny 
face of little Hermann, who would doubtless, at an 
early date, announce his presence. 

Herr and Frau Rudheimer showed at regular 
hours their methodical persons. Marthe’s affection 
for them did not prevent her finding in their ever- 
measured gestures and in their faces, which old age 
and austerity were hardening, something mechanical 
and wooden, and which made her think rather of 
automatons than of beings in flesh and blood. Yet, 
for Otto’s sake, she loved them dearly. How liv- 
ing, on the other hand, was old Frida, notwithstand- 
ing her fifty years of age, which had turned her 
flaxen-hair to grey and frozen the blue liquid look 
in her eyes! ... It melted when she smiled at 
Marthe or at a smoking, well-cooked dish. . . . 
Otto rejoiced in the thought that soon, on the re- 
opening of the university, he was to resume his 
lectures. This year his subject was the pathology 
of nervous diseases and he was devoting more time 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 67 


to the preparation of his lessons. ... At his re- 
quest Marthe had more than once left him alone, 
to enable him to write out his notes; and he also 
spent part of the mornings at the university library. 

She killed time by visiting the poor and the sick, 
to whom she brought warm clothing — knitted in 
view of the coming winter — soup or pastry. There 
was no lack of poverty and wretchedness. Many 
cases of misery, like that of the Krautzheim family, 
made her presence necessary. Since the death of 
the mother and grandmother, she cared no more to 
return to the Square of the Grand Bailiwick. But 
sometimes she went to see the child at the foundling 
hospital. The most objectionable charitable work 
did not repel her. She often thought that, had she 
been without a husband and childless, she would 
have loved, like St. Elizabeth, to devote herself to 
suffering humanity. 

St. Elizabeth ! More and more did the admirable 
church invite her to meditate there. Often, having 
set out for the catholic chapel, it happened that 
she found her feet carrying her to the cathedral 
square. She was never tired of admiring, up to 
the first gallery, the mass of square towers, flanked 
with pillars and turrets, whence sprang the tall 
octagonal pyramids, terminated with spires. Be- 
tween these two gigantic towers, raised towards 
heaven by the ardour of mediaeval faith, was the 
main entrance, carved with all the ingenuity, rich- 
ness and elegance of Gothic art. Marthe compared 


68 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the Virgin on the tympan, holding the Divine child 
in her arms, and with her feet crushing sin and 
vice, to the most beautiful sculpture in Amiens. A 
vine-arbour, loaded with fruit, and a rose-tree, cov- 
ered with flowers and birds, sprang from her and 
bent around the forms of kneeling angels. 

Marthe reflected on this profound symbol. Did 
not this woman, with smile so pure and a curly- 
headed Jesus in her arms, represent sovereign 
maternity, to whom all nature rendered homage? 
Insensibly the quality of her love for Otto was 
modified ; — as ardent as ever, it became more seri- 
ous. She conceived that he was not in himself an 
end, but that he had an object, — an immortal one. 
This goal was the child, the continuation of them- 
selves; — the child in whom their lives would be 
re-incarnated; — the child who was the fruit of 
their love and hope. . . . She did not ask herself if 
she loved Otto less, it seemed to her that she loved 
him better. 

She then entered the lofty nave. A peaceful 
yet frigid air, the sadness of a disused temple 
descended from the triple roof, supported by two 
rows of columns. The choir alone, with its ancient 
stained-glass windows and the reredos of the great 
altar, gave the living impression of former days, 
retained, almost intact, the soul of past centuries, 
when the incense went up in smoke and the harmony 
of voices mingled with the sound of the organ. . . . 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 69 


Seated on a chair behind a pillar, Marthe imagined 
that she had returned to her childhood days, when, 
in one of the side-aisles of Amiens Cathedral, she 
had long waits for the catechism and confession. 
. . . Who would have said then that she would live 
the best part of her life in a foreign town, to 
which she would become so accustomed that the 
country where she was born was now a foreign 
place, and whence so many events, so many ways 
of feeling, so many miles separated her? When 
she passed in front of the abandoned altars of the 
transept, above which curious paintings retraced 
the history of the saint, or when she raised her eyes 
to the side windows, she could not repress a feeling 
of anguish. Humiliation made her cheeks redden. 
. . . Frenchmen had mutilated these altars, these 
Gothic arches, the gems of these windows. During 
the Thirty Years’ War, the soldiers of Louis XIV 
had established a forage depot there. Later, the 
commissaries of Jerome, King of Westphalia, had 
dragged the massive silver reliquary from the sac- 
risty and torn one hundred and seventeen precious 
stones from their setting. . . . That was in the 
days when grandfather Ellange, a young sub-lieu- 
tenant, fresh from the ranks of the pages, was in 
garrison at Marburg and, like a conqueror, made his 
spurs ring on the same paving-stones which she trod 
to-day. . . . Which of these houses had sheltered 
him? ... To think that one of her family had, like 


70 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


herself, been young here, that he had been victori- 
ous, loved, perhaps hated? Strange caprices of 
destiny! . . . Life’s mysterious turning-points! 

Those were the only moments when she thought 
of her father’s predictions regarding the inevitable 
war between France and Prussia. . . . Prussia? 
Marthe, in this out-of-the-way corner Hesse, did 
not even know of its existence, and Marburg itself 
was in the same position. ... It was always of 
Germany that she heard the students and professors 
talking, — of holy Germany, one and indivisible, 
and not of Prussia, whose enforced tutelage, hard 
and dominating spirit was not much liked in the 
country. War? . . . No! That was a ridiculous 
nightmare! . . . Her sentimentality, which had 
never up to then been touched, save through pride, 
by the recollection of the past exploits of the Major 
and the present and future exploits of her elder 
brother, was shocked at the very idea of a possible 
conflict between her two countries. She had for- 
merly seen but one side of the medal : France and 
glory. She now saw the other side : Germany and 
honour. . . . But these thoughts were but passing 
flashes, like summer lightning across a summer sky. 
She threw herself back, with all the more violence, 
into her everyday tranquillity. 

One evening, however, before her husband had 
returned home from his visits, she experienced a 
painful alarm. A letter with large blue stamps and 
addressed to Herr Reserve-Stabs-Arzt Otto Rud- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 71 


heimer arrived from Cassel before dinner. With 
distrustful fear she placed it on his napkin. What 
did they want with him? 

“ Nothing,” he affirmed. “ Calm yourself. The 
time has not yet come for me to set out for good. 
. . . No, no, this is nothing, — only a little ma- 
noeuvring.” 

He exaggerated his jocular tone, but had never- 
theless become a little pale at the sudden image of 
the Nation in arms, that Prussian nation to whose 
laws he submitted, but without much love. ... It 
was terrible to think that he, a man of thought and 
science, a lover of peaceful work, — he whose ef- 
forts were ceaselessly directed towards saving a few 
more human lives from death, might be suddenly 
forced to take part in that horrible necessity, war, 
murderous war, and that he ought to consider it as 
a superior duty. He was opposed, by inclination, 
to the violent Prussian policy, and — one of the first 
victims of the bellicose ambition of Germany — he 
considered himself, like many Hessians of the 
North, much more in sympathy with his brothers 
across the Rhine, those of Hesse-Darmstadt, the 
Grand Duke of which made common cause with the 
sovereigns of the other Southern States. 

He eagerly tore open the envelope. 

“ Yes, it's as I said. . . . The Cassel troops are 
executing an autumn manoeuvre. . . . They are 
seizing the opportunity of testing the knowledge of 
the entire medical corps, with its reserve, as in time 


72 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


of war. Aid on the field of battle, removal of the 
wounded to country hospitals, etc. I mustn’t com- 
plain. This is the first time since the annexation 
that I have been convoked. ... It will be neces- 
sary, all the same, to overhaul my uniform.” 

She dined without appetite, saddened by the 
thought of this unexpected separation. However, 
in the presence of Otto’s good humour, the bad 
impression passed away. And she even amused 
herself, like a child, by taking out from the cam- 
phor-wood trunk, which was brought down on the 
following day from the box-room, her husband’s 
military clothes, with the cap and short sword. She 
insisted on his putting them on there and then, and 
clapped her hands with delight. Although the but- 
tons were tarnished and the cloth rumpled, he pre- 
sented really a martial air. 

He was the first to laugh, whilst curling his thick 
red moustache. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ that we Hessians, 
descendants of the Catti, are the real Germanic 
heroes. It was the Catti who annihilated the legions 
of Varus between Ems and Lippe. Tacitus is un- 
sparing in his praise regarding us. It is true that 
Tacitus, according to some people, never wrote any- 
thing but the Life of Agricola, and that his famous 
Annals is an apocryphal manuscript, entirely fab- 
ricated in the fourteenth century by Poggio. . . . 
It is imprudent to place your confidence in history.” 

Her good spirits having returned, Marthe herself 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 73 


put her husband’s uniform in order. And the con- 
vocation, feared at first, ended in a pleasure party. 
. . . With Frida, she accompanied Herr Reserve- 
Stabs-Arzt to Cassel, and whilst Otto was exercising 
himself in his eventual duties she visited, in com- 
pany with Fraulein Lehmann, the former capital 
of Electoral Hesse and the kingdom of Westphalia. 
The museum, the Auergarten with its orangery, its 
ornamental waters and its bowling-greens, the Rue 
Royale, as brilliant as the Rue de la Paix, everything 
would have appeared magnificent to them if the as- 
tonishing garden of Wilhemshohe had not, in the 
declining splendour of October, revealed to their 
admiration one of the extraordinary places of the 
world. Above the common-place palace, the former 
summer residence of the Elector, lay the prodigious 
park, a combination of steep mountain side and 
virgin forest with the arrangement of a pompous 
and rococo Versailles. In the depths of the sombre 
groves, they saw the grotto of Polyphemus and the 
cascade of Hades. Here and there, like green mir- 
rors, shone the immense ornamental waters. The 
highest fountain in Europe shot upwards from the 
Great Lake. Marthe dragged the congested Frida 
from the New Cascade to the Temple of Mercury 
and from the Temple to the Giants’ Castle. There 
was no respite for her until, thoroughly exhausted, 
they stopped near the Farnese Hercules which 
crowns the castle with so formidable a mass that 
merely in the thickness of the thigh eight to nine 


74 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


people are able, as though in a strange belvedere, 
to climb and stand. . . . 

“ I do not regret my fatigue,” said Frida in the 
train which was taking all three of them to Mar- 
burg. “ Confess that nothing equals that, neither 
Potsdam, nor even Versailles, and that neither 
Frederick the Great, nor Louis XIV, great though 
they may have been, did better than our little land- 
grave Charles ? ” 

Otto and Marthe, with patriotic pride, agreed 
with her. The same evening tunic, sword and cap 
were replaced in the camphor-wood trunk. And in 
the end all that remained of this episode in Marthe’s 
mind was a happy recollection. She hardly ever 
now left the house. The days were shortening, the 
lamp was lit sooner and insensibly winter had come. 

The long pleasant evenings around the stove re- 
commenced, they read aloud once more, and above 
all the piano was re-opened. . . . What Marthe 
found so charming in Otto’s character was his 
capacity for sentimental and spiritual joys, limitless 
as a dream. There were two men in him, and in 
that how typical he was of his race! On the one 
hand he was a dreamer, a great listener to music 
and a great maker of theories; on the other hand, 
a practical man of action. . . . She was ever aston- 
ished that it was the same man, — he whom she saw, 
in the details of his work, so precise, so sedulous, 
so fastidious, and he whom she watched with the 
tail of her eye when, seated in front of the key- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 75 


board, where a piece of music by Mendelssohn or 
a score by Wagner lay open, she let her fingers flit, 
carried away by the vertiginous rhythm, over the 
living keys. . . . How deeply she realised at those 
moments the profound genius of Germany! What 
other nation had drawn from the human lyre ac- 
cents more divine? This was the true land of that 
balm and philtre, — sweet, powerful and intoxica- 
ting music. Were not Beethoven and Mozart the 
greatest evokers of the infinite? . . . And with 
what a force she felt herself drawn towards Otto 
when she perceived him at the corner of the piano, 
with his head bent under the lamp and his eyes 
closed, listening to the natal soul and universal hymn 
which was singing within him. They flowed from 
her as from a spring. That was a minute of su- 
preme fusion, of immaterial flight in the open 
heavens. The same pinions carried them both aloft. 

Never, since they spent their evenings in this 
charming manner, — never, not even during the first 
days of their marriage, had they felt themselves 
closer friends. That winter, during the intimacy of 
those hours when they had no need to speak to make 
themselves understood, their communion was so 
absolute and so strong that Marthe, ordinarily rather 
reticent, felt a need to unfold her heart. She caught 
herself singing whilst occupied with domestic work. 
She tormented Frida with affectionate jokes. She 
wrote long and amusing letters to Amiens, — letters 
which reflected her happiness on every page. . . . 


76 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


The months of December and January, with their 
fog and snow, passed unperceived ; so did February’s 
feeble sun and April’s snows. . . . 

Spring came ; and although it was the second one 
she had spent at Marburg, it promised so well that 
it seemed to her that she felt it born, in her heart, 
for the first time. Easter brought its traditional 
fete, its bells and coloured eggs, and, in glasses of 
engraved crystal, pale golden Rhenish wines. Herr 
Rudheimer had again proposed the toast in which 
he discreetly expressed every one’s hope. They had 
listened to it with a somewhat mischievous attention, 
a tender complicity, Marthe’s health having, for 
some days past, sounded the alarm. One morning, 
three weeks later, Marthe, on rising, with pale and 
altered features, put her hand to her side. 

“ Otto ! Otto ! ” she cried. 

She stretched her arms towards him, smiling, 
with tearful eyes. He stopped short in the making 
of his toilet, astonished and hesitative. 

“ Is it true ? ” he murmured. 

“ Yes, listen.” 

She took his hand and laid it on her fine chemise. 
3ut piously he knelt down and placed his attentive 
ear on the warm garment. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ yes, you are right.” 

Simultaneously pride carried their souls aloft. 
And at the same time their hearts were filled with a 
feeling so delicious, so new that, fearing to burst 
into tears, they refrained from speaking. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 77 

“ My dear wife,” stammered Otto. 

He pressed her charming body against his power- 
ful chest, as though it were a sacred treasure. One 
of his arms supported the already enlarged waist, 
the other the enraptured and bending head. A tear 
of joy welled forth in one of Marthe’s eyes, wetting 
the eye-lashes and flowing on the nacreous eye-lid. 
Then, without speaking, he kissed the clouded eyes 
one after the other. They fluttered under his lips. 
They were soft, warm and living ; through them he 
kissed the soul of the beloved being who was his. 
. . . To think that soon they would be three! 

Henceforth they took no heed of the flight of 
time. April, May and June formed but a brief en- 
chantment. Constantly filled with the one thought, 
hours seemed but minutes to them. Marthe was 
much occupied with the cutting out, sewing and 
washing of a large supply of baby-linen. The en- 
tire household revolved around the coming morsel 
of humanity, to whom everybody and everything 
were in advance subservient. The pastor, looking 
younger in his long black frock-coat, appeared in- 
variably with a jovial countenance, and Frau Rud- 
heimer discovered, at the bottom of her drawers, 
a whole stock of lace and rattles. They had been 
used by Otto, after having been used by his father. 
. . . They would still come in for the son of the 
son of Otto! 

On the eve of the day on which Marthe was to 
set out for Amiens (for it was already the end of 


78 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


June and the Ellanges expressed a strong desire to 
see their daughter whilst she was still in a state of 
health to travel without danger), Frau Rudheimer, 
assisted by the chamber-maid and the pastor, who 
handed her the dresses, carefully packed her daugh- 
ter-in-law’s trunks. She insisted on Marthe’s avoid- 
ing any bending down and on husbanding her 
strength. . . . Otto had decided, although his holi- 
days did not begin until the end of July, to accom- 
pany his wife. Without missing his lectures, ab- 
sence from Friday to Monday was sufficient to 
enable him to go as far as Amiens and back. . . . 
By doing this he felt he would be easier in his mind, 
notwithstanding the presence of Frida Lehmann, 
who was also to make the journey. ... It was the 
last time that Frida would see France, so she had 
decided to take advantage of the opportunity of 
travelling with her friend. ... At last the hour 
for departure came. Marthe, with hat on head and 
bag in hand, came out from her room. Frau Rud- 
heimer retained her. 

“ Look, Marthe,” she said. 

She pointed to the trim nuptial bed with its white 
cotton curtains on which, that very morning, her 
clumsy old hands had taken pains to knot a fine 
piece of new green silk ribbon, — the colour of hope. 

“ Look, my dear daughter ! When you return, 
little Hermann has but to make his appearance. . . . 
The bed is ready ! It awaits you ! ” 


PART II 









IV 


Through the lofty open windows, looking on to 
the Boulevard du Mail, the magnificence of evening 
entered, and at the same time the confused noise of 
holiday-making Amiens, the distant music of the 
Fair of St. John. It was not yet night with its 
coolness, but that indefinite hour when the day is 
drawing out and when, nevertheless, the stars are 
already twinkling. By slow degrees, the sky was 
changing in colour, — would soon become dark, and 
without the heat having subsided. There was not a 
breath of air in the heavy and already black mass of 
the trees. At the ends of the table, covered with 
silver, the flames of the candles burnt immobile and 
straight. 

No one spoke. And yet, in that festive dining- 
room, there reigned an atmosphere of profound 
tenderness, the result of hearts having been drawn 
closer together. Amidst that silence they could 
hear each other. . . . M. and Mme. Ellange’s tender 
eyes were bent on Marthe. She had indeed 
changed. ... Yet in the fuller, graver face the 
features of former days were apparent to them. 
The mischievousness in her eyes recalled that youth 
which, not so very long ago, had turned everything 
81 


82 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


topsy-turvy there. Jacques and Louis, on either side 
of their sister, took a delight — after chattering the 
whole day — in their inexhaustible confidences, ex- 
perienced an intense joy in at last having her back 
amongst them and in finding that she was almost the 
same as before. At first, on her arrival with Otto, 
there had been between all of them, and in spite of 
embraces, a sort of inevitable embarrassment and 
coldness. She quite expected it. Was not her 
husband, in the eyes of every one of her family, 
doubly a stranger? They hardly knew him. . . . 
And badly, moreover, owing to their prejudices. 
. . . She counted on his second visit, when he came 
to fetch her in August. Then, thanks to his kind- 
ness, his good humour and his science, he would con- 
quer the whole family, which was secretly jealous, — 
he would definitely make himself accepted, and soon 
would make himself loved. ... In her own case 
she felt the necessity of letting a few hours pass by, 
in order to resume her former habits and discover 
herself anew. . . . An unforeseen incident had, as 
far as she was concerned, precipitated the fusion. 
Otto, suffering from a violent attack of neuralgia, 
had had to go to bed on arriving and stop there the 
next day. . . . Whilst he was resting, she had had 
to give up long hours successively to the curiosity 
and affection of every one. 

“ It is my turn now, Marthe,” said Mme. Ellange, 
when the Procurator and her sons had monopolised 
her longer than the normal time. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 83 


The Major, who, seated on the right of his 
daughter-in-law, drew vigorously at his pipe — an 
undeniable sign of emotion — took in at a glance the 
family table, and then, having blown a big cloud 
of smoke, made the declaration : — 

“ There’s nothing like mutual support, all the 
same! . . . Do you know, little one, we thought 
you were lost. But here you are again, and that’s 
the important point.” 

These words caused her less suffering than what 
was left unsaid. The very justice of the reproach 
made her find it more unjust. . . . Yes, she had 
written but little and thought still less, she had been 
lacking in tenderness and confidence towards them. 
. . . And yet, having obeyed the strongest law, that 
of her womanly instinct, she felt no shame. Did 
not her duties as a wife come before those of a 
daughter and a sister? . . . She suffered also, in 
spite of her joy at being there, because, owing to 
Otto’s absence, their tenderness was divided. And 
who could say whether her husband’s absence did 
not, perhaps, contribute to the satisfaction of her 
people ? 

“ I hope,” said the ever-good Mme. Ellange, 
“ that Otto will write to-morrow to Marburg to get 
his holiday extended, — at any rate long enough to 
give him time to recover. What a pity that his lec- 
tures are not yet over ! ” 

“ He would have done very much better to let 
you come alone, with Frida,” observed Jacques. 


84* THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ In that way he would have avoided the fatigue of 
the journey.” 

The kindness of the thought was tinged with 
irony : the disdain of a soldier, proud of his health 
and strength. And then, think of a doctor being 
ill ! There was something comical in the idea. . . . 
He rose, well proportioned in his uniform. Marthe 
could not help smiling at him. It was evident that 
his military coat suited him better than it did Otto. 

“ And how is Mile. Lehmann ? ” enquired Louis. 

More of an artist and more cultivated than his 
brother, the advocate had always been sympathetic- 
ally disposed towards his sister’s former governess. 
He teased her, but, because of her credulity and 
awkwardness, held her in affection. 

“ Her also we shall see again with pleasure.” 

The discreet Frida, under the pretext that she 
had purchases and visits to make, had left her com- 
panion on reaching Paris, and was to come on to 
Amiens later. 

The Major, in Marthe’s honour, then held out 
his liqueur glass towards Mme. Ellange, who made 
a pretence of fastening the cover of the liqueur- 
stand in front of her with the ancient key hanging 
by a chain from her neck. 

“ Give me a drop of kirsch ! We’ve drunk to 
papa and mamma ; now we must toast a little fellow 
of whom, it seems to me, we’ve said very little up 
to now.” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 85 


“ Grandfather is right,” said M. Ellange. “ I 
also will take a little kirsch.” 

“ And what about us ? ” exclaimed the two 
brothers, simultaneously. 

Gaily they called for brandy, whilst Marthe con- 
sented to take a little more cacao. 

“ There ! Only a drop or two. Thank you ! ” 

“ It’s Veuve Amphoux’s make, you know,” said 
Mme. Ellange, carefully raising the square bottle. 
“ Ma foi, I think I’ll take a little more myself.” 

“To my great grandson!” proposed the Major. 
“ To Jean Pierre Rudheimer. I warrant the jolly 
little fellow will be a drinker of kirsch.” 

Marthe’s memory carried her back to another 
meal; she once more heard the words of another 
toast. The kindly faces of the pastor and his wife 
appeared before her, amidst the intimacy of the lit- 
tle dining-room in Marburg. Her family was there 
also. Her heart — troubled — went from one to 
the other. But at that minute a stronger bond at- 
tached her to those of her own flesh and blood. She 
rose and went to embrace her mother. Whilst the 
two women were talking together in a low voice, 
the men, having emptied their glasses at a draught, 
resumed the discussion which had been interrupted 
by the dinner. Jacques spoke of the bad effect 
which had been produced on the officers of the 43rd 
regiment by the speech which Jules Favre had de- 
livered on June 30 before the Corps legislatif on the 


86 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


subject of the Bill calling 90,000 men of class 70 
under the flags. It had just been reproduced by the 
Memorial d’ Amiens. Louis took the current issue, 
that for Sunday, July 3, from a small round table, 
and unfolded it with a wry face. A Republican, as 
much by conviction as through the natural tendency 
of youth to belong to the opposition and combat 
accepted ideas, he read, preferably, the Progres de 
la Somme. 

“ Let us have a look at it ! ” 

“ Thiers, at any rate, apologises, 1 ” said the lieu- 
tenant. “ He’s not like your red republicans. He 
confesses that Marshal Niel was right, the day after 
Sadowa, in wanting to increase our forces. He 
recognises that our strength lies in peace. Instead 
of being, as formerly, face to face with a federal 
Germany powerless to attack, we are in the presence 
of a formidable military power. I cannot see, any 
more than your Jules Favre can, what interest 
Prussia could have in throwing herself upon us with 
the forty million men which she represents since 
her offensive treaties with the Southern States. . . . 
But between that and bellowing about disarmament, 
as these gentlemen of the opposition do, — between 
that and refusing to vote for the total of the con- 
tingent there is a vast difference. . . . Isn’t that so, 
father ? . . . It’s all very well for you to shake your 
head, little brother. You defend Favre because 
you’re a lawyer. But cast your eyes to the ground 
and remember the fable. It was through such non- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 87 


sense as yours that the astrologer woke up to find 
himself at the bottom of the well.” 

“ Impenitent Orleanist though he is, M. Thiers, in 
my opinion, is here in the right,” said the Procura- 
tor. “ Only the strong are respected. Conse- 
quently I am easy in my mind. However greedy 
M. de Bismarck’s policy may be, he will hesitate be- 
fore he attacks so large a morsel as France. Fau- 
cibus hcesit! ” 

The Major lit a fresh pipe. 

“ Not bad, making a mouthful of Austria,” mur- 
mured the old man. “ But that was a foregone 
conclusion. Vienna! Pooh! We’ve promenaded 
more than once on the Prater. But Bliicher in the 
Champs-filysees, that’s another thing. That’s not 
seen twice in a century. And then several of them 
joined together for the Invasion. It is true one of 
them was a King of Prussia. Plus two emperors. 
The Holy Alliance!” 

“ I should not like,” continued the lieutenant, “ to 
pain Marthe by insisting on a subject the very idea 
of which must upset her. But she will be the first 
to remind you, grandfather, that there can be a 
Holy Alliance more redoubtable than that of sover- 
eigns, — namely, that of peoples of the same race, 
armed for the same fight. . . . Our sister has just 
lived two years in Germany and is well acquainted 
with the trend of thought there.” 

He became silent. Every one turned towards 
Marthe and waited for her to speak. But, as 


88 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


though overcome by stupor, she watched, in silence, 
the terrible spectre rise before her mental eye. 
Thus, hardly had she arrived, with her heart full 
of sweet thoughts, entirely given up to remem- 
brances and hope, than she came into contact with 
this nightmare. ... It was taking shape, — every 
one looked upon it as a possible, even probable re- 
ality, an event of which the date alone was unknown. 
Thus, the monstrosity of which her father had 
formerly so rudely warned her, and the image of 
which, up to then, she had almost always succeeded 
in forcibly repelling, in order to preserve her hap- 
piness, rose up once more and imposed itself upon 
her! 

She had only had to leave the nest where she 
had taken shelter, with her head hidden in her 
love and desirous of neither hearing nor seeing, — 
she had only had to place her foot upon the soil 
where she had spent her childhood and to re-enter 
the home of her youth, to feel both soil and home 
tremble. 

Jacques attested : 

“ Is it not true, Marthe, that on the other side of 
the Rhine there is but a single country, — Germany, 
whatsoever may be the name, Prussia, Bavaria or 
Saxony, by which they divide it, and that all Ger- 
mans are ready to shed their blood for unity ?” 

“Yes,” she murmured. “Fur Deutschland's 
V ertheidigung ! ” 

The words rang out mysteriously prophetic. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 89 


“ For the unity of the German fatherland ! . . . 
Yes, that’s it. Do you hear, grandfather? ” 

“ Yes, I hear,” replied the Major. “ Now, listen 
yourself. . . .” 

The gap-toothed old soldier began to whistle an 
ancient martial air. It was to the sound of that 
music that they had entered Berlin and Vienna. 
His eyes laughed, satirically. 

Louis sighed and said: 

“ A great idea is a great force.” 

But M. Ellange brought the discussion to a close 
by saying : 

“ There is something still stronger than a great 
idea, — namely, a great force at the service of a 
great idea. I, like you, wish for peace, because 
there is no finer idea, and because, at the bottom, 
in spite of so many wars which have stood in the 
way, the Empire symbolises Peace. But I add, 
with M. Thiers, peace is strength. Now, we pos- 
sess strength. Therefore . . .” 

Satisfied with his syllogism, he disdained to 
complete his argument, and made the proposal : 

“ Suppose we go upstairs and sit with Otto a lit- 
tle, unless there is a danger of fatiguing him too 
much ? ” 

But Jacques had an unavoidable meeting to at- 
tend, a punch d’ adieu in honour of a comrade who 
was changing his employment. Decidedly he had 
no sympathy either for the person or the ideas of 
that big red-haired man his brother-in-law. 


90 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ I’ll go with you,” said the Major. 

He was still, at eighty-one years of age, a faith- 
ful habitue of the Military Club. His senile egoism, 
momentarily overcome by the pleasure of once more 
seeing Marthe, had again got the upper hand. His 
life was as regular as a clock, — turned in a circle 
of little invariable occupations. Marthe gracefully 
kissed his aged skin, as rough as a stone. A long 
hand-shake united her to Jacques. 

“ Good night to Otto ! ” he exclaimed. 

She evoked these two men, her brother and her 
husband, face to face, in their rival uniforms. . . . 
Come now ! What folly it was 1 . . . When noth- 
ing was threatening . . . and when so many sub- 
jects of conversation. . . . 

That evening, after M. and Mme. Ellange, with 
Louis, had retired, and the Major having returned 
home about midnight all noise in the house had 
ceased, Marthe, undressed, remained long at the 
window. 

Otto’s irregular breathing, his dear presence filled 
the room behind her. The warm air mingled with 
the perfume of the night, and at the same time there 
entered with it a great and silent peace, the beauty 
of the slumbering town, the fields where the thick- 
sown crops were springing up, the freshness of gar- 
dens, the whole familiar scenery of her native dis- 
trict. . . . How many, many hours, during the 
sleepless nights of summer, she had thus, in her 
girlhood, spent in dreaming! Her old thoughts, 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 91 


without any effort on her part, came back to her, — 
everything which had been her first self from the 
time when she wore medium-length skirts and her 
hair in a plait. That was before Frida had entered 
into her life. . . . She went to Mile. Lavergne’s 
pension in the Rue des Corps-Nuds-Sans-Tetes. 
She recited La Fontaine and the catechism. Her 
brothers were models of humanity. . . . She did 
not believe that one could become anything else than 
a magistrate or an officer. M. Ellange, then ad- 
vocate general, and the Major, the hero of the 
Napoleonic epoch, formed the limit of her social 
horizon, exactly in the same way as Amiens was 
her whole world. Her mother, with her devotion 
and subdued grace, incarnated the whole role and 
mission of woman. . . . Then Fraulein Lehmann 
had come with other ideas — and discoveries. 
Frontiers and fetters were abolished. There was 
the joy of seeing, loving, understanding everything; 
the desire to form herself according to her dream, 
and to marry the man of her choice. 

She bent over her sleeping husband. He 
breathed with difficulty, oppressed by a bad dream, 
which he mechanically thrust from him with his 
hand. So as not to disturb him, she took up as lit- 
tle space as possible in stretching herself out in the 
large bed. How good it was, she thought, to sleep 
once more on a thick, supple mattress! To-mor- 
row, at break of day, she would get up for early 
mass at the cathedral. She had been filled with 


9£ THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


emotion on once more seeing its huge mass rising 
from the little square, — that accumulation of doors, 
gables, galleries and towers which impressed the on- 
looker as much by the simplicity of its mystic 
grandeur as by its fabulous flower-like architecture. 
But, absorbed by the presence and the prayers of 
the whole town, she had been unable to commune 
with herself. Alone, in the deserted apsis, she 
would pray with the officiating priest. . . . She 
would ask God to allow her happiness to continue — 
to allow nothing to trouble her quietude. . . . She 
tried in vain to sleep and, turning nervously from 
side to side, thought of the new life which struggled 
within her and proved its strength by tormenting her 
with dull blows. 

Otto, after dragging on until Wednesday with a 
slight fever, began to look better and left his room. 
A telegram from Marburg had relieved him of all 
anxiety; the Rector expressed a desire that he 
should get quite well again and only return when 
he felt inclined. But, prompted by the thought of 
his duty, he was already talking of leaving at the 
end of the week. It would be but a going and com- 
ing. . . . Early in August he would be back again. 
What a good time they would have on the banks of 
the Hallue, in the garden of Pont-Noyelles ! He 
had retained a delightful recollection of the old 
house (a family property of the Ellanges, where 
they had sojourned during the month of their 
engagement), and of the orchard, with its low 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 93 


plum-trees, whose heavy branches trailed on the 
grass. 

“ Do you remember, after the Exhibition ? ” 

Once more their lips closed over the juicy fruit 
and its odorous flavour mingled with the furtive 
taste of their kisses. 

Fraulein Lehmann, who had prolonged her shop- 
ping in Paris, arrived on Thursday morning. Otto 
and Marthe went to meet her at the railway station. 
Strange pieces of news had circulated since the 
previous evening. There was a rumour of the can- 
didature of a Prussian prince for the Spanish 
throne. Marshal Prim had offered it to him, and 
the acceptance of Leopold von Hohenzollern was 
only suspended, it was said, until the consent of the 
head of the house, King William, had been obtained. 

At dinner, the day before, M. Ellange and Otto 
had discussed the dangers of the eventuality. 
Where the doctor saw but a flattering offer for his 
country, without any possible effect on general 
politics, the Procurator, with his profound knowl- 
edge of historical laws, detected the possibility of 
a sudden conflict. What! a German proconsul on 
the other side of the Pyrenees? . . . Travellers, 
arriving from Paris in the evening, had even re- 
tailed the terms of an energetic declaration which 
Duke de Gramont had read at the tribune. . . . 
Rather than support a German prince on the throne 
of Charles V, rather than see the equilibrium of 
Europe disturbed, and the interests and honour of 


94 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


France imperilled, “ we shall know, gentlemen, how 
to carry out our duty without either hesitation or 
weakness. . . Whereupon Louis could not re- 
sist crying : — 

“ But what about the fine hope of the plebiscitum, 
father ? The country thirsting for work and peace ? 
For the masses, you know, only voted in remetm 
brance of the old song, 4 The Empire stands for 
Peace?’ It seems to me that the Empire is more 
and more the symbol of war.” 

“And what will happen then?” the Major had 
interjected. 

And what will happen then? Marthe could still 
hear these words, which had chilled her to the heart, 
as she read in the Memorial, on the station platform, 
the terms of the warlike speech of the Minister of 
Foreign Affairs. 

Otto, gloomy, folded up the newspaper. If the 
prince’s candidature was confirmed, then, consider- 
ing France’s bellicose attitude and Prussia’s distrust- 
ful ambition, the fat was in the fire. What was 
going to happen? . . . The train whistled in the 
distance, its smoke appeared and soon the heavy 
waggons thundered over the turntables. Frida Leh- 
mann’s ruddy face, enframed with white curls, was 
visible at one of the carriage-doors. 

She arrived full of the fever which was agitating 
Paris. From time to time she held her forehead 
between her hands, busily counted her innumerable 
packages. “Have I forgotten anything? Yes! 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 95 


. . . Ah! mon Dieu, there’s my handbag on the 
seat! . . . And my ticket? Where has my ticket 
gone to? . . . Have you got my hat-box, dear 
Marthe? Mein Gott! my poor Otto, what terrible 
news this is ! ” She resembled a noisy child who 
had been left to its own resources. Her dress and 
accent made people turn their heads. There was 
whispering around them and already threatening 
looks were given in their direction. Otto’s appear- 
ance and the few words which had been exchanged 
in German drew, hostility upon them. Already the 
fire was smouldering, — the idea of war was spread- 
ing from one to the other. 

The days passed amidst a feeling of great un- 
easiness and an ever-increasing anxiety. Every- 
body tried at table to avoid the subject which 
haunted them. Marthe, terror-stricken and as 
white as a sheet, feigned to be in good spirits, but 
her febrile gaiety rang false, and they fell back 
again into deep and intolerable silences, during 
which thoughts were so prolific that very soon the 
words came out by themselves, — commonplace 
phrases, with which each tried to beguile his or her 
torment, but which deceived no one. Jacques and 
the Major were the only ones who retained smiling 
faces. The old man had seen many another similar 
occasion. As to the lieutenant, when he returned 
home from the barracks in an excited state of mind, 
he thought, egotistically, of nothing save adventure, 
his career and glory. His confidence hid the re- 


96 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


verse of the medal from him. . . . Otto, not know- 
ing what to decide, was inclined to return home at 
once. Who could tell what might happen? But, 
reluctant to leave his wife behind him under these 
conditions, he hesitated and put off deciding from 
hour to hour. He contained himself with difficulty 
and could not imagine himself returning to Mar- 
burg without Marthe. Her place, in time of war, 
was at home, near the old people. It was the 
wife’s duty to guard the husband’s house. ... To 
think, however, of taking her back because of mere 
rumours, distorted and doubtless amplified, — to 
think of uselessly shortening her holidays, that so- 
journ on which she had so much counted! . . . He 
kept his reflections to himself. Yet he did not for 
a moment doubt that, spontaneously, she would 
carry out her duty. . . . But what was the good 
of paining her in advance? By speaking of one’s 
ills, one gave them form and irritated them. 

Once people took breath. Prince Hohenzollern 
renounced his candidature and the King of Prussia 
approved. Faces brightened up everywhere; eyes 
shone with hope. Marthe caught herself singing 
an ancient popular air, the recollection of which 
she had lost, and which suddenly sprang forth from 
a compartment of her mind. . . . M. Ellange re- 
peated, whilst rubbing his hands together, a phrase 
of the Emperor, and which had been repeated to 
him by the Prefect. 

“ His Majesty, on hearing that the Spanish Am- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 97 


bassador had just brought the good news to Duke 
de Gramont, declared : 4 War would now be wholly 

unnecessary, an absurdity/ ” 

In the evening they opened a bottle of champagne 
and gaily touched glasses. Fraulein Lehmann, 
seated next to Louis, could not restrain her tears 
when, in silence, the glasses were raised. A crush- 
ing weight was removed from every one’s heart. 
They looked upon the future with relief. It seemed 
as though Otto had again become one of the family. 
Unconsciously, the Ellanges feted him, as though 
they wished to efface the bad impression of the last 
few days, and as though, in spite of themselves and 
in spite of him, Otto had virtually become, since 
this probability of war, the Enemy. 

But the respite was a short one. Dark clouds 
suddenly re-appeared on the horizon. It was whis- 
pered that the empress’ party was in favour of war; 
that Duke de Gramont had asked Baron von 
Werther, the Prussian Charge d’ Affaires, for a 
written promise from the king, an engagement pre- 
venting any future candidature on the part of a 
prince of his house; and that Benedetti, the French 
Ambassador, had received an order to demand, at 
Ems, a guarantee. . . . Once more Marthe saw 
her existence suspended, the scourge unchained, 
everything lost. They lived in an intolerable atmos- 
phere of disguised hostility, but so apparent that 
Fraulein Lehmann, herself, out of the world though 
she was, felt it. 


98 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ I shall leave to-morrow,” she said to Marthe. 
“ Believe me, my dear, it is time to return to our 
own country.” 

She had spoken these words in the simplicity of 
her heart, but, measuring their import by Marthe’s 
commotion, she corrected herself, and stammered: 

“ I beg your pardon ! I forgot that you are a 
German of recent date, and that you will leave part 
of your heart here. ,, 

Marthe bowed her head in silence. Up to now 
she had only suffered, without trying to see clearly 
into her heart. There was a question — a terrible 
one — which she had never asked herself. If war 
were declared to-morrow, if Otto were called out, 
she would have to follow him. . . . Henceforth her 
place was over there in the new country. . . . She 
did not discuss this necessity. It was a command of 
the law and her own heart. . . . And yet, at the idea 
of being alone, with the aged Rudheimers, in the 
little house in the Burgerstrasse, — at the idea of 
feeling isolated, far from Otto and far from 
Amiens, she felt her heart torn in two. . . . Whilst 
her husband was following the army, attending to 
the wounded, she would be feverishly waiting for 
news. . . . Where would the battles be fought? 
Secretly she hoped that it was not on French soil, 
in order that a patriotic sorrow might not be added 
to her sorrow as a wife. 

In vain did the Major try to reassure her. He 
argued that the campaign would quickly be over. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 99 


“Your husband has nothing to fear, little one. 
He is not a real combatant. . . . And as to the re- 
sult, you may set your mind at rest about that. 
This quarrel will be settled in a trice. ... A mil- 
itary promenade! . . . The time to return them 
their Sadowa ! ” 

But, wiping her eyes, she shook her head. 

Whilst she was assisting Frida to pack her trunk, 
Otto, having hesitatingly knocked at the door, en- 
tered. In his hand was a telegram. It was from 
his father. . . . Without a word, he handed it to 
his wife. Trembling, she took it and read : — 

“ Advise immediate return, every one here pre- 
paring.” 

“ What do you think of it? ” questioned Otto, at 
the end of a moment. 

She sought his eyes and looked into them frankly. 
Otto gazed at her sadly, but with entire confidence. 
However great might be the sacrifice — whatever 
she was going to leave behind her — her mind was 
made up immediately; she would show herself 
worthy of so much esteem and affection. 

“ I am ready to follow you,” she said. 

He took her by the hands and drew her to his 
breast. 

“ These are cruel hours, dear Marthe. But we 
shall know how to support them courageously.” 

He raised his soul towards God. He felt no 
hatred against any one, only a little pain at being 
treated by the Ellanges, his parents, as though he 


100 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


were a burdensome guest, an intruder whose de- 
parture they both welcomed and feared, since on 
leaving he would he taking Marthe with him. . . . 
Notwithstanding the secret anger which he saw in- 
creasing around him, — an anger against everything 
which bore a German name, he felt no rancour what- 
soever against chattering, frivolous France. No 
longer ago than yesterday, war — a distant phantom 
— struck terror to his heart, as it did in the case of 
every intelligent man ; but to-day when it rose up — 
tangible and ineluctable — a profound sense of dis- 
cipline and above all a vision of the great entity 
taking shape replaced his individual thought. The 
image of the German fatherland, the unbounded 
collective dream about to become a reality, Germany 
on her feet, united and victorious, that effaced, dom- 
inated, justified everything. 

It was the morning of the 15 th, trunks had 
been fastened and the departure fixed for three 
o’clock in the afternoon. In the dining-room M. 
and Mme. Ellange were exchanging desultory re- 
marks with Otto and Marthe. Since the evening 
before events were rapidly following one on the 
other. A despatch from Bismarck to the various 
embassies had cut off the bridges. “ Henceforth, 
the King of Prussia,” it announced, “ refuses to 
receive the French Ambassador.” During the past 
few days the Ambassador had paid him several 
fruitless visits. William definitely avoided France’s 
insulting and unreasonable demand. This time war 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 101 


was inevitable. “ Alea jacta est” M. Ellange had 
solemnly declared. 

All were red-eyed and fuller of emotion than 
they showed. Louis was nervously walking back- 
wards and forwards, whilst the Major, seated at a 
little table in front of the open window, was care- 
fully cleaning and blowing into his pipe. After 
passing a thin brass wire down the cherry-wood 
stem, he inflated his cheeks and blew with all his 
strength. In the old man’s eyes, nothing else ex- 
isted in the whole world. 

“ Mile. Lehmann is a long time in coming back,” 
said the Procurator at last. “ Suppose we sit down 
to table ? ” 

She had gone out about eleven o’clock to pay a 
final visit to the cathedral and museum. 

“ And what about Jacques?” added Marthe. 

“ He told us not to count upon him. He is so 
occupied just now.” 

Every one thought of the barracks, humming like 
a hive. For although the mobilisation had not yet 
been decreed, all were hard at work. What with 
distributions and reviews Jacques could not find a 
moment to spare. . . . The picture they had evoked 
was so painful a one that Louis, in order to divert 
their thoughts, began to joke about the absent Frida 
and her legendary absence of mind. 

“ To table ! ” decided Marthe. “ Are you com- 
ing, grandfather?” 

“ All right ! All right ! ” 


102 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


The Major, having tested his pipe by a few more 
inhalations, was briskly rising to his feet when a 
confused noise rose from the Boulevard du Mail. 

“ What’s that ? ” exclaimed Louis. 

And leaning against the window-rail, by the side 
of his grandfather, both looked down into the street. 
“ Oh!” 

“The devil!” 

On hearing this double cry every one suddenly 
rose and chairs were overturned. Mme. Ellange, 
alarmed, moaned. “Ah! mon Dieu!” She had 
become excessively nervous since recent events and 
was getting more so. On the other hand, M. El- 
lange retained, even in his most vivacious move- 
ments, an affected coldness, a professional majesty. 

“ Another alleged spy,” he declared, “ or else a 
bearer of false news.” 

The street was in a perpetual state of agitation. 
Shouts arose from all sides. Here and there the 
people collected into groups; then broke up again. 
“A Berlin! . . . Vive la France! . . . Allons! 
enfants de la Patrie!” came from the crowd, which, 
this time, was not an ordinary one. It was diffi- 
cult to see through the trees what was happening 
in the midst of the howling group which about a 
hundred onlookers were accompanying. But the 
cries of anger and the threats could be heard dis- 
tinctly. “ Death to the Prussian ! She’s a spy ! 
Hang her ! ” 

Marthe was the first to recognise, from her straw- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 103 


bonnet ornamented with cherries, that it was Frida. 
Clenched fists were stretched towards her and 
sought to strike her on the face. She was walk- 
ing, as white as a sheet, — she who usually was so 
ruddy, — between two policemen, who had the great- 
est difficulty in defending her. Her large tender 
eyes, very wide open through fear, gazed wildly 
upon the enraged mob. Otto, his fists clenched 
with indignation and his lips white, looked upon 
the scene in silence. 

“ Frida !” cried Marthe. “Oh! what an out- 
rage! Father, you would not tolerate such an 
abomination as this ! ” 

M. Ellange, filled with indignation, threw down 
the napkin which he was still holding and rushed 
to the assistance of the excellent woman. The 
Major and Louis followed him. 

“ The wretches ! ” cried the advocate. “ If they 
had their own way they would dishonour France.” 

“ Remain here, grandfather,” pleaded Marthe. 

But the Major had already crossed the threshold. 
Soon Marthe saw him out on the boulevard, en- 
deavouring to overtake the Procurator and Louis, 
who were running towards the gesticulating proces- 
sion. It was but some sixty yards away, and M. 
Ellange was about to reach it, in company with 
Louis, when Marthe uttered a piercing scream. 
Frida had collapsed in the arms of the policemen. 
“ She’s shamming ! She’s dead ! String her up ta 
a lamp-post! Finish her off!” 


104 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


The tumult suddenly increased, then immediately 
subsided. The groups made way. The Procurator 
had been recognised. . . . The people waited, with 
a curiosity still stormy, but which quickly changed 
to stupor and confusion. . . . The names, presence 
and guarantee of the three Ellanges, beloved and 
known, from grandfather to grandson, acted on the 
crowd, so prompt to change its mind. But still 
more was the mob impressed by the sight of poor 
Frida’s big body bent in two. The policemen had 
a difficulty in supporting her, with her head hang- 
ing forward, so that the cherries on her hat swept 
the ground, and her arms swinging. Louis helped 
to raise her up and they laid her gently down. M. 
Ellange put his ear to her heart, tried to detect res- 
piration, and then rose, deadly pale. 

“ It is all over ! She is dead ! ” he said. 

Then the people moved aside and took off their 
hats. 

Otto and Marthe, clinging to the window, under- 
stood. . . . They spoke not a word; their hearts 
were bursting. Yet they could not believe the 
truth. Mme. Ellange wrung her hands. Preceded 
by the Procurator and the Major, the funereal group 
came towards them. One of the policemen held the 
feet ; Louis and the other officer were at the head. 

Hastily descending, the two women received on 
the threshold of the vestibule all that remained of 
Frida Lehmann. The dead woman was placed 
upon a sofa in the drawing-room, awaiting the prep- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 105 


aration of the death-bed. In vain did Otto try 
tractions of the tongue and a sub-cutaneous injec- 
tion. . . . Rising to his feet, he pointed through 
the window at the magnificent sky, and said : — 

“ She is there ! ” 

And as Mme. Ellange, sobbing, asked “if it were 
possible ? ” he added : — 

“ Emotion, terror. . . . Doubtless an embo- 
lism! ” 

Hours passed, occupied with the details of the 
last toilette. 

“ But what about your departure, my children ? ” 
asked Mme. Ellange, as five o’clock struck. 

Otto glanced at the motionless body. What deci- 
sion was he to come to? Should he take the dead 
woman back to Marburg? But the length of the 
formalities, the difficulty, perhaps the impossibility 
of transporting the body, if the situation became 
complicated ever so little, was to be thought about. 

. . . Should he have her buried at Amiens? . . . 
Yes, that would be better. He would have liked, 
however, to have remained a few days longer with 
his wife to pay their last respects to their old friend. 

. . . But more imperious duties called him away. 
Mme. Ellange guessed his scruples and entreated 
him: 

“ At any rate, if you cannot prolong your own 
stay, leave Marthe with me. She will rejoin you 
as soon as possible.” 

Otto was stunned by the brutality of events and 


106 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the way they had followed one on the other. He 
considered whether he had not better defer his re- 
turn until after the sad ceremony rather than leave 
Marthe behind. . . . Perhaps, after all, a gleam of 
reason might hold back the two nations, on the edge 
of the precipice? Was a collision absolutely in- 
evitable? He was beginning to hope that it might 
be avoided when, at the close of the afternoon, 
Louis came in with M. Ellange. They arrived 
from the Palais, where the First President had in- 
formed them that the die was cast. That very 
afternoon, at the Senate and in the Chamber, the 
Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Keeper of the 
Seals had read the declaration of the Government, 
and had been cheered. Thiers, demanding that at 
least they should take time to reflect, Jules Favre 
and E. Arago, asking that the text of the despatches 
be made known, had been silenced, covered with 
hoots and insults. 

“ Nevertheless,” observed Louis, “ we won our 
case in the main. As Thiers had the courage to 
say, torrents of blood are going to be spilt for a 
question of form.” 

He became silent. For at that moment the 
Major came in, singing/' Veillons au salut de 
Empire!” He was in a sprightly mood through 
having drunk two glasses of Vermuth to the health 
of His Majesty and the success of his arms. 

They sat down to table, but without Jacques. 
He had sent word that he was dining at the Club, 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 107 


where the enthusiasm was great. The Major’s 
high spirits quickly subsided. They ate amidst an 
icy silence. The weight of the unknown no less 
than that of death oppressed them. The terror of 
the morrow was added to the sorrow of the pres- 
ent. When the dishes had been despatched, and as 
they were folding up their napkins, without paying 
any further heed to the grandfather, who had only 
just reached the roast and was continuing to mas- 
ticate his food with methodical slowness, a telegram 
was brought in. 

“ For M. Rudheimer,” announced the femme de 
chambre in a low voice. 

“ Will you allow me?” 

He broke open the envelope. All eyes were fixed 
upon him. It seemed an eternity before he spoke. 
Twice he read the message, then he folded it up 
and, placing his heavy hand upon it, said, at last: — 

“ My father informs me that I have received my 
mobilisation order. I must set off at once.” 

He rose. With the exception of the Major, who 
was drawing towards him the dish of peaches, 
everybody followed suit. Large tears flowed down 
Mme. Ellange’s cheeks. The Procurator coughed, 
whilst Louis, approaching Marthe, put his arms 
around her neck. 

“ And you, little sister, — what will you do ? ” 

“I shall follow Otto.” 

Releasing herself from her brother’s arms, she 
came and placed herself, quite simply by her hus- 


108 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


band’s side. Face to face and with downcast eyes, 
the two groups stood motionless. Only the regular 
noise of mastication could be heard. The Major, 
having carefully pealed his peach, was busily eat- 
ing it. . . . The painful silence seemed intermin- 
able. At last Otto spoke. 

“ Thank you, dear wife. But I shall set out 
alone. . . . Remain with your mother, so as to as- 
sist her. As soon as Frida Lehmann rests in the 
bosom of the Eternal you can follow me. . . . 
Perhaps I shall still be at Marburg when you arrive. 
But if not, you must await me there. For hence- 
forth that is your place.” 

His final words fell like a cleaver. On hearing 
them each felt as though they had cut into raw 
flesh. . . . The Major had risen. His gaze passed, 
without apparent emotion, from one group to the 
other: the Rudheimers and the Ellanges. . . . Two 
nations and two races were opposed in them. They 
were so near that they could have touched each 
other, as though there was not a definite division 
— almost a gulf already — between them. . . . 
What words could have expressed what they felt? 
... To the utmost extent they realised their power- 
lessness, knowing that everything, now, was vain, 
and what a tragic fatality weighed upon them. 


V 


After the burial of Frida, Marthe was stricken 
down by an intense fever. On returning from the 
cemetery she had had to go to bed. She passed a 
burning hot night, with delirium following on 
torpor. 

“ What is the matter with her, doctor? ” 

Mme. Ellange anxiously questioned good Dr. 
Nichamy as he was laboriously descending the stair- 
case. Stopping on the landing and with a glance 
in the direction of the floor above, as though he 
feared he might be overheard, he declared: 

“ I fear erysipelas.” 

“ A serious attack ? ” 

“ I hope not. It depends on whether she worries 
herself too much or not.” 

Mme. Ellange shrugged her shoulders. 

“What can you expect? And in her state, 
too?” 

The good and learned Dr. Nichamy, who was 
physician to the Hotel-Dieu and had been the fam- 
ily doctor for the past thirty years, concealed the 
most affectionate delicacy beneath his rough ex- 
terior. Taking Mme. Ellange by the hands, he 
replied : 


109 


110 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ My dear good lady ! Marthe is young. Good 
health will get the upper hand. . . . How long has 
she been enceinte?” 

Mme. Ellange counted. 

“ This is the fifth month. . . . The child will be 
born in November.” 

Dr. Nichamy made a reassuring gesture. 

“ Oh ! there’s plenty of time between now and 
then, — time for her to get back to Marburg.” 

Mme. Ellange raised her eyes to heaven. . . . 
What a calamity this war was ! It was enough to 
drive any one crazy ! 

“ Bah ! It will soon be over. How are your 
sons? What is Jacques doing? ” 

“ He leaves to-morrow morning with the 43rd 
Regiment.” 

“ Where are they going? ” 

“ It is said to Thionville. The 4th Army Corps, 
under General de Ladmirault.” 

“ God be with them. I share your anxiety.” 

Dr. Nichamy moved away with his broad back 
stooping. He rejoiced, at that moment, over the 
thought that he was a childless old bachelor. . . . 
Everywhere, in every family, he found the same 
anxiety. . . . Poor people! . . . But nowhere was 
the tragedy more poignant than here. . . . Marthe’s 
suffering face beset him. 

In order to attend to her more conveniently, she 
had been placed in the bedroom which she had occu- 
pied when a girl, and which communicated with that 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 111 


of Mme. Ellange. During the intervals when the 
fever left her prostrated but lucid, she gazed at the 
walls, the pink-striped paper, the flowers on the cur- 
tains which she had so many times counted, the 
light-coloured brasses of the chest of drawers, and 
the sweet, dark face of her grandmother in its faded 
gold frame with astonishment. . . . Happy mis- 
chievousness shone in the eyes of this stranger. 
Never had anything troubled their tranquillity. 
Never had any suffering tormented her life. . . . 
“ My destiny bears no resemblance to hers,” thought 
Marthe. “ Why should sorrow be heaped exclu- 
sively upon one? It was not just.” 

At times she imagined she was once more a little 
girl. It was then that, with head leaning back on the 
pillow, throbbing temples, and a feeling that she was 
the same person and yet another — so much another, 
she lived certain hours of her past life over again: 
an illness which she had had at sixteen and her long 
convalescence after an attack of typhoid. . . . Had 
those days really existed, had she really been that 
pale silhouette of which she was reminded by a faded 
photograph standing on the mantelpiece? . . . Was 
it possible that a person could change so much in 
appearance and in mind? . . . And then, in gusts, 
the fever would mount to her face; a whirlwind of 
red and black ideas would veil her eyes. She saw 
Frida staggering in the midst of a crowd of luna- 
tics and Jacques, surrounded by smoke, brandishing 
a flag. She heard the crackle of musketry and the 


112 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


loud thunder of cannon. . . . Then Otto rose up 
before her brother and plunged a sword into his 
breast. . . . Her husband, her brother ! . . . Why, 
oh ! why was this ? 

Hammer-like blows pounded her forehead, lan- 
cinating pains zigzagged through her body. . . . 
By a sudden effort of her will she sat up in bed. 
She must dress herself, take the train, leave at once. 

. . . At all cost, she must rejoin Otto . . . over 
there, where her place was. 

She had just dozed off, thoroughly exhausted, 
when the door half-opened. 

“ Hush ! ” exclaimed Mme. Ellange on the thresh- 
old. “ She is sleeping.” 

“ I should much have liked to have kissed her.” 

Marthe, in the sort of swoon in which she lay, 
recognised the voices as those of her mother and 
Jacques. . . . She opened her eyes. The lieutenant 
had drawn near and as he stood near the bed he en- 
veloped her with a long, farewell look. Suddenly 
recovering consciousness of herself and at the same 
time of her ills, she read in it tenderness and pity. 

“You are going?” she murmured. 

“ To-morrow morning at four o’clock. . . . Au 
revoir, Marthon. I’m sorry to leave you ill, and 
yet I’m glad you’re here, at home.” 

She saw his meaning. But, though sufficiently 
conscious to suffer through it, she felt too weary to 
reply. She was tossed here and there like a piece of 
wreckage. He continued. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 113 


“ I do not know when I shall see you again, 
now. . . 

The double meaning of the phrase was apparent. 
Marburg was so far away ; the unknown and bloody 
to-morrow held forth its traps. Towards what des- 
tiny was her brother, this courageous young man, 
so full of strength and life, moving? Should she 
ever see him again? . . . Their whole childhood 
rose before her. She recalled their military games 
at Pont-Noyelles; with him, the eldest, as general 
of the army, the gentle Louis as a soldier, and she 
as a cantiniere. One day, Jacques had taken her to 
a circus and during a panic, caused by an alarm of 
fire, he had saved her life by holding her high in 
the air. On another occasion he had sprained his 
wrist whilst climbing the first-floor balcony, to get 
her a branch of jessamine. He had taught her how 
to row on the pond. The oars used to become en- 
tangled in the long stalks of the water-lilies, and as 
his face was splashed with the drops of water he 
laughed. 

A faint smile appeared on her face and she sighed. 

“ Let us hope.” 

With that vivacity which in the case of so many 
sturdy men hides a deep emotion, he cut short his 
farewell. With all the fervour of her heart, she 
followed, accompanied him. . . . 

She woke up early in the morning as Mme. El- 
lange was crossing the room on tiptoe. Her 
mother was going to the station with the whole fam- 


114? THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


ily. Marthe was to be left in charge of the aged 
Julie whose fluted bonnet and wrinkled old face, re- 
sembling a rennet, timidly appeared in the doorway. 

“ Come in, come in, Julie,” said Mme. Ellange. 
“ Have I forgotten anything ? ” 

She verified the contents of her bag: a flat pocket- 
flask full of old rum, a thousand francs in bank-notes 
in a pocket-book, and a consecrated medal sewn into 
the lining. Marthe turned over. 

“ Kiss him well, mamma,” she said. 

Doors banged. Once more the house was buried 
in silence. Through the narrow opening of the cur- 
tains a pale green sky appeared. Now and then 
the brass-instruments of a band could be heard. . . . 
It was the 43rd Regiment, with Jacques at the head 
of his section. They were to pass the Place St. 
Denis. . . . Quite awake, Marthe compared her 
brother’s departure with the almost shame-faced one 
of Otto. Coldly, in the evening, at the door of the 
death-chamber where Frida lay, surrounded by 
lighted candles, he had taken leave of them all. She 
alone had accompanied him to the railway station. 
They had walked up and down the platform for 
nearly an hour, waiting for the train. At last the 
cruel minute had come ; weeping, they had embraced 
each other ; and as the carriages moved off she had 
followed full of distress, the figure leaning out at 
one of the windows, the face of her husband as it 
was swallowed up in the night. . . . The red light 
at the end of the train receded in its turn, grew 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 115 


smaller and disappeared. . . . Her life seemed to 
slip from her. . . . She had needed all her moral 
strength to keep up her courage. She promised her- 
self that in three days, when her funereal duties were 
accomplished, she also would leave. But it would 
only result in a fresh separation on reaching Mar- 
burg. What sort of life would she lead without 
Otto in her deserted house? What sort of a wel- 
come would the little town reserve for her with her 
borrowed nationality? Would she not truly be 
the Frenchwoman, the Enemy? ... No matter! 
Duty before everything! . . . And now here she 
was, immobilised, perhaps for weeks. . . . Without 
having once more pressed him to her heart, Otto 
would be leaving the house where she had loved, 
where the little existence which was being formed 
within her had been conceived. How precarious 
was that little life, — like all lives at present in the 
midst of this imbecile, death-dealing hurricane ! 
She finished by falling asleep, like a stone which 
drops in an abyss. Dawn had appeared, flooding 
the sky with a scarlet splendour. 

For many days hers was an animal existence. 
News came to her but devoid of meaning. She 
heard the narrative of the triumphal departure of 
the 43rd Regiment. An arch, made of leafy 
branches and hung with Chinese lanterns, had been 
carried by young men in front of the drummers. 
All the inhabitants were at their windows, and at 
the corners of the streets, lined with soldiers of the 


116 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


national guard, Bengal lights had been burnt. Peo- 
ple shook hands and cheered ; buoyed up their hearts 
with hope. . . . Marthe let herself drift along the 
hours like a boat on the current of a stream. Every 
hour of the day was disturbed by the tremendous 
tumult into which the nation had been thrown; 
rumours of early engagements and the chaos which 
reigned as regards the victualling of the troops, the 
materiel , etc. Societies for the succour of the 
wounded were formed. Subscriptions poured in. 
Louis, who could have got himself replaced, was on 
duty at the citadel and had applied for the rank of 
corporal in the artillery of the garde mobile. An 
excellent sportsman, he had obtained from his 
grandfather certain notions of and a taste for ballis- 
tics, and for some time had belonged to the Amiens 
Shooting Club. From time to time he put in an ap- 
pearance at home, looking very elegant in his guard- 
man’s uniform: the cloak repaired, the blue trousers 
with a double red band falling well. 

Marthe, with her head wrapped in cotton-wool, 
took her illness patiently. She lived beyond the 
present hour, had become once more the feeble 
child whom the mother coaxes. A week passed in 
this manner. Although the armies had not yet come 
to close quarters, she began to be anxious at not 
having received a letter from Otto, who had been 
informed telegraphically of her illness and the im- 
possibility of moving for a long time. ... At last 
a letter came from him. He expressed his sorrow 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 117 


at hearing she was ill, far from home. She must 
look after herself well and quickly get better, in 
order to return to Marburg as soon as possible. He 
would not feel easy until he knew she was in port. 
... As regards himself, there were few details. 
The troops of Hesse, Nassau, Thuringe formed a 
corps in the army of the Prince Royal of Prussia. 
He was attached to the lazareth of an infantry divi- 
sion. He was in good health, and promised to 
write whenever he was able. 

At the beginning of August, Marthe, the swelling 
of whose face had gone down and whose fever had 
subsided, wished to get up. She was in a hurry to 
enter on the convalescent stage ; the thought of her 
return was ever with her. But she was so weak 
that she could hardly stagger as far as her long 
chair. In proportion as the time of that sudden 
commotion — Frida falling under extended fists and 
cries of death — became more remote, she felt her 
sadness and disgust increase. She became pro- 
foundly neurasthenic. ... So it was to this level, 
that of brutes, that French people had fallen ! Iras- 
cibility, credulity, savagery, — these were now the 
characteristics of this infant-like nation, incapable 
of controlling its nerves and directing its thought! 
The severity with which she judged was not that 
of a Frenchwoman but of a German, influenced in 
her criticism by germanic parti pris, under whose 
power she had unconsciously come. The true vir- 
tues of the race, gay, chivalrous, generous, easily 


118 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


angered but not less quick to take pity, were hidden 
from her. Through her thick crape everything was 
black. 

With the beginning of August came the torpidity 
of its hot days. Irritating flies buzzed and bit. 
With a tired moist hand, Marthe drove them away. 
The hours dragged on behind her closed shutters, — 
hours of suspense waiting for the arrival of the 
newspapers. There were no more letters, except 
uninteresting ones. Feverishly the seals and the 
writing were scrutinised. . . . And then, like a dead 
leaf, the letter was allowed to fall. . . . People 
thought of nothing else than the war, the gigantic 
chaos of these hundreds of thousands of men collect- 
ing on the frontiers, and amongst this ant-hill like 
confusion so many dear ones. . . . Otto! Jacques! 

. . . Daily life had ceased to be. M. Ellange re- 
garded his work at the Palace of Justice as the 
veriest drudgery. Were there still any lawsuits? 
How could people quarrel over their petty affairs? 
What disputes were worthy of being examined when 
such a contest as this brought two great nations face 
to face, when one question alone was of significance, 
— the present, the future, the life of France? 

Louis, entirely taken up by his new occupation 
was full of enthusiasm. The woollen galloons in- 
dicating his rank of corporal formed a striking con- 
trast with the dark cloth of his sleeves. They saw 
little of him, and Marthe regretted his absence. 
However short his visits might be, they brought her 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 119 


appeasement, such was the delicacy which, in his 
endeavour to avoid recalling anything that might 
hurt her feelings, he showed in the slightest phrase. 

But everything, in spite of the consideration 
shown by members of her family, wounded her. 
There was her father’s tacit reproach, the secret 
bitterness which she divined in the words : “ Had 

you but listened to me, had you but decided not to 
make this marriage ! ” . . . There was her mother’s 
perpetual, unique thought; she trembled but for 
one person — Jacques. Otto did not count. . . . 
Above all, there was the Major’s cold, hard serenity. 
He had changed much since the Exhibition. It was 
astonishing to what an extent he had shrivelled up 
and hardened! His former partial tenderness for 
his granddaughter — the living likeness of Pepita 

— had vanished, with a whole host of recollections. 
There were disquieting blanks — great black holes 

— in the old man’s memory. The most recent 
years were those which he remembered the least. 
He lived exclusively among the far-away recollec- 
tions of his youth, in the glorious days of the Em- 
pire. He turned his back on the members of his 
family, on the sadness and anxieties of the present. 
Not a sign of emotion appeared on his frigid fea- 
tures. Jean Pierre Ellange warmed himself only in 
the sun of the dead. He spent his existence at the 
Club, playing interminable games at Dominoes or 
manille with old retired officers. When he ap- 
peared at table it was but to prophesy another Jena 


120 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


and the crushing of Prussia. The wretched success 
at Sarrebriick appeared to him to announce the 
most overwhelming campaign. When he spoke of 
“ The Emperor,” the heavy image of the aged 
Napoleon III was effaced, and in the depths of his 
fascinated eyes the Other appeared with his frock- 
coat and small hat. Amidst the sound of the tocsin, 
victory followed on victory. 

Marthe, with her eyes fixed on the little calendar 
on which, melancholily, she struck off the days, 
marked Monday the 8th with the point of her pen- 
cil. Washed and with her hair dressed, she was 
sitting on the bed, on the occasion of Dr. Nichamy’s 
morning visit. 

“ After to-morrow, doctor? Don’t you think I 
shall be well enough to start on my journey? ” 

Dr. Nichamy shrugged his shoulders and said: 

“ Perhaps, perhaps so ! But which way will you 
go?” 

From underneath his heavy drooping eyelids he 
gave her a sharp glance with his little piercing eyes. 
Marthe gave him an anxious, questioning look. 
Then he turned towards Mme. Ellange, who was 
stirring a bowl of milk, to melt a lump of sugar. 
. . . Did they know nothing? 

“ Haven’t you read the newspaper ? Hasn’t M. 
Ellange told you ? ” 

“No!” cried Marthe, in an agitated tone. 
“ What has happened? ” 

“ Well, the Strasburg route seems to me to be im- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 121 


possible. The day before yesterday, the 4th, there 
was a big fight at Wissembourg. The Abel Douai 
division was beaten and the general killed. The 
army of the Prince Royal of Prussia has invaded 
the territory. Marshal de Mac-Mahon occupies a 
strong position and a great encounter is imminent. 
It is impossible for a woman who is alone to risk 
travelling in that direction. The trains are crowded 
with troops. Indeed, it is a question as to whether 
they are still running.” 

“Terrible! Terrible!” moaned Mme. Ellange. 

The thought that they had been beaten and that 
the Prussians were in France stunned her. 

“ And via Metz? ” asked Marthe. 

“ The same state of commotion reigns there. 
You would be in the thick of the fight. I cannot 
take the responsibility of authorising you, depressed 
as you are, to take that route.” 

“ Then I will go by way of Belgium.” 

“ Yes, you might perhaps be able to get by way 
of Belgium.” 

Mme. Ellange placed the bowl quickly on the little 
bedside table and taking her courage in both hands, 
said : 

“ But tell her, doctor, that that is folly. I have 
tried to reason with her. She is not in a state to 
support such fatigue. A lot of progress we shall 
have made should she be ill on reaching Marburg, 
where she will find no one but her parents-in-law, — 
strangers, in fact. There, alone, far from every- 


m THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


thing and every one, without any news of us, her 
brothers or her country, she will merely vegetate. 

. . . Would she not do very much better if she 
rested for the whole month at Pont-Noyelles? The 
judicial vacation is about to begin. We shall be 
beautifully cool in the old house. She can stretch 
herself out under the pine-trees or else in the or- 
chard, in the evening, on the bank of the Hallue.” 

But Marthe, with a shake of her head, obstinately 
negatived the proposal. Mme. Ellange, at the end 
of her strength and arguments, fell into silence. 

“We will return to the subject in a couple of 
days,” resumed Dr. Nichamy. “ At a time like this 
hours count three times their ordinary length. 
Who knows what may happen from one moment to 
another? Who knows what is happening on the 
Sarre, at Metz, in Strasburg ? ” 

“ Great events, my good friend, great events ! ” 

It was the Major who, whilst descending from 
his bedroom, had heard their voices in Marthe’s 
room. He threw out the reply as he was passing, 
and his alert step, his whistling were soon heard 
fading away in the staircase. Military airs, bar- 
rack bugle-tunes and camp refrains were constantly 
being whistled by him. 

The next day Marthe, with savage irony, recalled 
her grandfather’s words. The Memorial d’ Amiens 
trembled in her hands. ... Oh ! that scene ! Long 
would she see it. They were breakfasting in the 
dining-room and a condemnatory silence reigned. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 123 


“ I have made up my mind to leave on Wednesday,” 
she had just announced. “ Via Brussels, Liege and 
Cologne.” — “ You are a free agent,” M. Ellange 
had drily replied. At that moment Julie had 
brought in the mail. As usual, nothing but news- 
papers. M. Ellange had opened one of them and 
immediately uttered a cry. Marthe rushed to his 
side, snatched away the sheet and read. . . . Gen- 
eral Frossard’s army corps, at Forbach, and Mac- 
Mahon’s army, at Reichshoffen, had both been 
severely defeated. 

“ What do you say, little one, what do you say ? ” 
mumbled the Major. 

In an expressionless voice and with beating heart, 
she continued. One by one the despatches signed 
Napoleon sounded like a knell. And each time that 
the illustrious name was announced as appearing 
at the bottom of a notification of a disaster, the 
grandfather’s fossil-like features twitched nervously. 
It was as though, every time, a bullet had struck him. 
Soon he bowed his head and fell into a state of 
savage muteness. 

The shock was so much the more unexpected as, 
on the previous evening, astonishing rumours had 
thrown Paris into a state of agitation, — rumours of 
the taking of Landau, the Prince Royal of Prussia 
and twenty thousand prisoners. The capital became 
delirious. Whilst rente rose at the Stock Exchange, 
people began to decorate their windows with flags. 
Songs celebrated the victory everywhere. Marie 


m THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Sasse, recognised in a carriage, sang before the 
crowd the triumphant notes of the Marseillaise. 
The national air had been chanted on every square. 
In vain, about one o’clock, had a despatch from 
Metz, stating that Mac-Mahon had not moved, 
calmed the peoples’ enthusiasm, — in vain had five 
hundred roughs, enraged at the manoeuvre executed 
on the Stock Exchange, invaded and pillaged the 
Corbeille . 1 The impression still remained good. 
People still had hope. ... It was then that the 
crushing news, bit by bit, fell upon them. Un- 
wearied, Marthe read on. First of all came the 
Empress-Regent’s appeal to the courage of France; 
then, in fragments, telegraphed from time to time 
from the Imperial Headquarters, the whole naked, 
tragic truth. At both ends of the front, under the 
formidable pressure of the German armies, which 
had long been exercised and ready, the French 
forces crumbled away. 

Though a few corps were intact and grouped 
themselves around Metz, Alsace was. invaded. The 
army of the Prince Royal, already victorious at 
Wissembourg, completed the overthrow of those 
who were still in its way. Mac-Mahon, routed, fell 
back on Nancy. . . . Forbach and Reichshoffen 
came like a double clap of thunder and woke up the 
nation. Until then, accustomed to victory, it had 
simply waited for its heroes to gather the usual 

1 The place at the Paris Bourse, or Stock Exchange, where 
the stock-brokers meet, — Translator. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 125 


armfuls of laurels. The extraordinary disorder 
and sluggishness of the beginning of the war — a 
state of affairs only partially revealed — had in no 
way troubled it. Everything would come right in 
the end ! . . . On the contrary, however, everything 
suddenly collapsed. The imperial government — 
only yesterday still so imperious — stammered as 
though it felt the ground suddenly give way beneath 
its feet and a yawning abyss appear before it. 

Disillusioned and deadly pale, M. Ellange wan- 
dered about the room with a silent, ghost-like step. 
The Major had slipped away without a word. 
Marthe wept, filled with a horrible uncertainty. 
What about Otto? What had become of him? 
Oh! that he had not taken part in the battle, that 
he was not wounded! And at the same time she 
thought, with a sorrow and a humiliation the keen- 
ness of which surprised her, of the sorrow and 
humiliation of her native country. ... So the 
Prussian army had entered France, was advancing? 
— and without knowing why, she felt as though her 
heart were being trampled on, dragged from her 
body. Mme. Ellange, the very figure of distress, 
sat motionless. One joy consoled her in the midst 
of her sorrow. The 43rd Regiment, Ladmirault’s 
corps, had not taken part in the fight. There was 
nothing to fear as far as Jacques was concerned. 

During that week people lived in a constant state 
of excitement. Every hour the extent of the re- 
verse and the gravity of the situation became more 


126 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


apparent. A short but very painful scene took 
place between M. Ellange and Louis. The latter 
had come, between two exercises, to eat at home 
and take an hour’s rest. On the previous day there 
had been a stormy sitting at the Legislative Body. 
Senate and Chamber had been summoned by decree 
and an extraordinary session opened. A new war 
broke out, this time between the vanquished regime 
and the opposition. The Ollivier Ministry had 
resigned and the Empress had hastily improvised the 
Palikao Cabinet. M. Ellange bitterly criticised 
Jules Favre’s attitude and his proposal to recall the 
Emperor to Paris, since his presence with the armies 
was useless, and to give full power to a Commission 
of fifteen representatives of the people. ... By 
all means let all the national guards in France, in- 
cluding the stationary ones, be armed. But he was 
strongly against the idea of the country, at such a 
solemn hour as this, displaying to all the world the 
spectacle of its political dissensions. 

“ It is wrong to attempt to overthrow a govern- 
ment when it is endeavouring to save the country,” 
declared M. Ellange. 

“ But supposing it is dragging it to destruction ? ” 
objected Louis. 

“ A revolution in the presence of the enemy is a 
crime.” 

“ Unless it is a vital necessity.” 

“ A heavy responsibility rests on the shoulders of 
the Republicans. I am of the same opinion as 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART m 


Granier de Cassagnac. If I were in power, I would 
immediately hand them over to a Council of War.” 

“ Father, forceful language is nonsense unless it 
is based on strength.” 

“ We still possess it.” 

“ May God hear you.” 

In heart and in thought Marthe leant towards 
her brother’s point of view. With that need which 
youth feels to set its face against established laws, 
and also because of her sympathy for Louis, whose 
generous convictions responded to her nature, she 
became, as in the days before her marriage, one of 
the opposition. M. Ellange personified the Empire 
and the past. Louis was the Republic and the 
future. Her old convictions, her former faith 
came back to her. Taken up with the precipitous 
succession of present events, she no longer returned 
to the question of an immediate departure, and 
thought of it less. Moreover, still so tired as she 
was, and with the burden within her which she felt 
was a little heavier, was it quite prudent to face a 
difficult journey and the unknown to-morrow? 
With affectionate persistence, Dr. Nichamy advised 
her not to do so. Let her follow, he said, her 
mother’s excellent idea. A fortnight at Pont- 
Noyelles, amidst the silence and the verdure, would 
do her the very greatest good and complete her con- 
valescence. Then, without fear, she could say fare- 
well to her parents, if she considered that her 
conscience compelled her to do so. 


128 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Her conscience? Marthe no longer looked into 
it untroubled. Clearly she was better looked after 
here and perhaps was less worried than she would 
be in Marburg. Had she received news from Otto, 
she would have been less harassed with doubts. 
Yet his silence did not seem to her to be ominous 
of evil. Had he been, against all probability, 
wounded at Reichshoffen, she would have known it 
by now. What had become of him? What was he 
doing? . . . She imagined that he had become thin 
through his hard night-work, his care and devotion 
shown to the wounded. She would have liked to 
have known for certain. That would have enabled 
her to wait, with no less anxiety, certainly, but 
with greater resignation, for the hours to pass, — 
hours that sped above them like black clouds in a 
stormy sky. Every one was as though electrified, 
restless and, through incessantly waiting for the 
thunderbolt to fall, had nerves strung to the utter- 
most. Pieces of news followed one on the other 
like flashes of lightning and revealed, amidst the 
darkness, prospective disasters. Three letters came 
from Jacques describing the enervation of the 
troops, the distraction of the commanders in chief, 
the burdensome Emperor. M. Ellange avoided 
speaking about him, or, when it was necessary for 
him to do so, no longer used the old appellation. 
“ His Majesty ” seemed to him to be an anachron- 
ism ; a mockery, Louis went so far as to say, with- 
out the Procurator daring to protest. People 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 129 


might have thought that Napoleon no longer ex- 
isted had not his phantom been evoked by the de- 
crees signed by the Empress-Regent. But even 
these documents and Eugenie’s name awakened no 
echo. The sovereigns were but shadows; the Na- 
tion alone counted, that great collective body France 
who, surprised, was now on her feet, knit together 
by misfortune, preparing and arming herself. 

On August 15th, M. Ellange, after attending the 
mass of St. Louis, joined his wife and daughter at 
Pont-Noyelles. They did not celebrate the Em- 
peror’s fete. There was neither reception, nor fire- 
works, nor the firing of cannon. Such a celebration 
would have seemed an insult to the mourning nation. 
Before stepping into his cabriolet, the Procurator 
instructed old Julie to keep a watchful eye on the 
Major. He had obstinately refused to leave 
Amiens and his bedroom, where, since Mac-Mahon’s 
retreat, he had shut himself up and took his meals. 
Except when eating and smoking, he never opened 
his mouth, but sat, a silent figure surrounded by 
a cloud of smoke, in his high-backed arm-chair with 
side head-rests. He gazed into the distance, with 
an expressionless, disquieting look. 

In the old home of her childhood, Marthe unbent 
and found repose. For entire afternoons she re- 
mained stretched out under the trees of the orchard. 
The juicy fruit scented the air: golden greengages 
speckled with red, and violet-coloured plums, cov- 
ered with grey bloom. A large brown holland 


130 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


parasol, striped with red, and wicker-work arm- 
chairs had been placed for her under an old cherry- 
tree. She often descended as far as the Hallue. 
A large swampy meadow sloped gently towards the 
little river, which flowed sluggishly along amidst 
sedges and water-lilies. Rows of poplars trembled 
in the slightest breeze. The damp earth gave forth 
its freshness. Those were hours of comfortable 
existence during which her soul was by slow degrees 
dissolved and her supple body recovered its strength. 

. . . She gathered odorous branchlets, a sage or 
centaury flower, and chewed them without think- 
ing of anything. She participated in the confused 
life of things, felt herself enveloped in the serenity 
of the earth and the sweetness of the sky. How 
fast we hold on to the places where we grew up, 
where the wonders of life were revealed to us! 
She came to see that this landscape and the country 
where she was was part of herself, just as she was 
part of them. She might have thought, at one time, 
that she was detached from them, but the truth was 
she remained attached by mysterious and tenacious 
bonds. One morning, whilst walking to the shady 
cemetery where her grandmother lay at rest, she 
passed some little girls who were playing but who, 
on seeing her, stopped. 

“ Do I frighten you ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh ! no, madam ! ” replied one of them. 

Bursting into laughter, they began to skip about 
and clap their hands. The biggest then lightly 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 1S1 


struck each of her companions, one after the other, 
and herself on the breast, alternately, repeating 
each time the words : “ Mis-tram-gram-pike-pike- 

kolegram-boure-boure-ratatam-as-tram-gram.” Her 
clear voice uttered these singular syllables very 
quickly. The last one touched left the circle; soon 
there was only one left and the chirping band, dis- 
persed, singing: 

Une poule sur un mur, 

Qui picotait du pain dur, 

Picoti-Picota, 

Leve la queue et puis s’en va! 

“ Ah! ah! ah! ah!” 

Marthe heard the rhythm of the song rise from 
the depths of her being. On that very spot she, 
like these little girls, had pronounced the words of 
the game and made off singing : “ Picoti-Picota.” 

She mused a long time in the neglected cemetery. 
Two or three mausoleums, around the family vault 
of the Ellanges, and a few recent pieces of sculpture 
alone attested that the dead ones were recollected. 
Even this recollection, considering the commonness 
of the bead wreaths and the faded flowers, seemed 
so precarious. The green and disjointed grave- 
stones, scattered in the tall grass, the fragments of 
crosses, the moss-covered inscriptions, and, there and 
there, the uneven earth of ancient tombs spoke so 
eloquently of the vanity of life, the irresistible, in- 
cessant equalisation which time brings with it. . . . 
On the black marble plaque fastened to the wall of 


132 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


their little chapel she read, in an undertone, the long 
family list, the names of Ellanges of former days. 
. . . They went back more than two hundred years. 
. . . She found consolation in the ancientry of her 
family. . . . She became part of a distant past and 
at the same time she enlarged her life. . . . She felt 
that she was not an ephemeral, useless form but a 
link in the quivering chain. . . . And already the 
next link — the child who would continue that chain 
— was being forged within her. . . . Dull blows 
indicated its presence. ... It said : “ I am here.” 

She put her hand to her side. Would it be an 
Ellange? No, a Rudheimer ! . . . And to the same 
extent as she felt anchored, by those of her race 
who reposed there, to something stable, which she 
could not easily define, but the sweetness and 
strength of which she experienced, so did she feel 
dragged away into the distance and unattached by 
the one who would come. . . . How this corner of 
Pont-Noyelles, where, with a feeling of joyful sur- 
prise, she once more became conscious of her prim- 
itive ego, — how this patch of France, where for 
two centuries beings of her blood and name had 
lived, loved and suffered, had escaped from her 
mind, and how, without effort, they were returning 
home at the decisive hour ! . . . Thanks to this lit- 
tle neglected cemetery Marthe found herself rein- 
stated in her family and country. But at the same 
minute the movement of a Rudheimer informed her 
that she had renounced of her own free will. . 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 133 


The ancestral chain, to which she found it so com- 
forting to hold on, abruptly ended with her. She 
had chosen another family, another country. Her 
son or daughter would belong to them. . . . He or 
she would be neither French nor an Ellange. . . . 
But a Prussian, a Rudheimer. . . . For the first 
time this certainty was painful to her. . . . She dis- 
missed the future from her mind. Her present 
suffering was enough. She had not regretted 
France when it was happy and triumphant. . . . 
And now, on seeing it conquered and unfortunate, 
she realised to what an extent she was French and 
an Ellange. 

The rumour of important engagements in the 
neighbourhood of Metz was confirmed. Marthe 
had to forget her own troubles in order to restore 
a little courage to her mother. Since the arrival of 
the news of the 14th she no longer contained her- 
self. On the day after M. Ellange’s arrival at 
Pont-Noyelles it was known that the German troops 
had profited by the movement of Bazaine’s army 
from Metz, with the Emperor, to attack his rear- 
guards. An indecisive battle had been fought on 
the right bank of the Moselle, — a fight in which 
the corps of Generals Decaen and Ladmirault had 
taken part. ... A few days later people learnt, 
but in a very confused manner, that communications 
were cut, and that fresh battles had been fought, 
this time on the left bank, around Rezonville and 
Gravelotte. The Emperor was reported to have 


134* THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


previously left the army to join the fresh troops, 
the bulk of Mac-Mahon’s corps, which were being 
collected at Chalons. The most contradictory ru- 
mours were afloat. According to despatches from 
English or French sources, the French armies had 
achieved a bloody but considerable triumph. Part 
of the Prussian army was said to have been routed 
in the Jaumont quarries. On the other hand, the 
enemy’s despatches spoke of the success of the 
armies* of Steinmetz and Frederic Charles, and of 
Bazaine, his retreat cut off, having been driven back 
under Metz. . . . On both sides the losses were 
recognised to be formidable. People spoke of no 
fewer than thirty thousand killed and wounded. 

The mother was haunted by a sinister presenti- 
ment. Ceaselessly Mme. Ellange repeated: — 

“ I am sure that Jacques has been killed! ” 

M. Ellange, unable to control himself any longer, 
put his horse into his carriage on the 25th, and set 
off for Amiens, where, after seeing Louis and the 
Major, he intended to proceed to Paris. There, per- 
haps, he would be able to obtain some information. 

Alone in the large house the two women wandered 
about like lost souls. In vain did Marthe attempt 
to divert her mother by getting her to sit under the 
pine-trees with her work. They carried with them 
the current issues of the Amiens newspapers and 
those of the previous day from Paris. The jour- 
nals arrived after luncheon, which they ate in si- 
lence and without an appetite. Then Mme. Ellange 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 135 


installed herself in her old Gibraltar arm-chair, and 
whilst she was knitting one of her eternal mufflers 
Marthe went through the newspapers, one by one. 
She read everything, — sometimes reread. ... In 
the midst of the vague narratives a name or a de- 
tail would arrest their thoughts, and they would 
endeavour to fill in the picture. . . . Then the ter- 
rible feeling of uncertainty would seize them again. 
... By dint of sharing Mme. Ellange’s fears, 
Marthe thought less about Otto. Her brother 
alone was in danger. She received a shock, how- 
ever, when the postman, whom they went to meet 
every day, immediately on rising from table, waved 
in the distance, with the newspapers, a large en- 
velope. 

“ A letter for Mme. Rudheimer, ,, he said. 

It bore the Marburg postmark. Marthe recog- 
nised the pastor’s trembling handwriting. Hastily 
breaking open the envelope, she found three letters 
inside from Otto, together with one from her father- 
in-law. Her husband had addressed them to the 
Burgerstrasse, under the impression that, immedi- 
ately after her recovery, Marthe would have re- 
turned to their little house. So explained Herr 
Rudheimer between two verses from the Bible. 
He and his wife expressed wishes for the prompt 
and complete re-establishment of their dear daugh- 
ter-in-law. Let her come! Everything was ready 
for her. . . . Her eyes dim with tears, Marthe 
hastily read the sheets which Otto had torn from 


136 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


his notebook. Scribbled in pencil, they had been 
written piecemeal, whenever he had been able to find 
a moment to spare, amidst rush and disorder. . . . 
The ambulances were filled to overflowing. . . . 
The wounded were ever pouring in; there was a 
nightmare of operations. . . . Otto lived in the 
midst of blood and sanies. . . . The last letter, 
dated the 20th and more carefully thought out, was 
one long cry in favour of the end of this reign of 
terror and of the recommencement of a tender, 
peaceful life. . . . Considering the rate the war was 
progressing, Otto hoped it would soon be over. He 
hoped that his brother-in-law Jacques would come 
out of it safe and sound, like himself. He con- 
gratulated himself on the fact that he was serving 
near Metz, against another army. Thus he was 
spared a great horror. . . . Ah ! when would he be 
able to resume a calm and happy life? . . . His 
dear wife would await, without any fresh shock, 
the blessed hour of her deliverance. He embraced 
her sadly, but with his heart filled, at that idea, with 
a very sweet hope. 

As they were crossing the dining-room to go and 
sit under the pines, Marthe said : — 

“ Would you like to read them, mamma? ” 

And without thinking she handed her the letters. 
Mme. Ellange took them, but no sooner had she cast 
her eyes on the writing than she vivaciously thrust 
them from her, saying : — 

“ I don’t know German.” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 137 


Marthe sighed and began to translate. . . . But 
she immediately perceived that her mother was 
listening without hearing. . . . What was Otto to 
her ? . . . The stranger, the enemy. . . . Only one 
being existed — her son Jacques. . . . Folding up 
the first letter without reading it through, Marthe 
placed it with the others. . . . The image of her 
husband became dim. . . . That of her brother rose 
before her mental eye — clear and besetting. . . . 
But, however much she tried, she could not succeed 
in imagining Jacques as he was at that moment. 
She saw him leaning over her bed and embracing 
her, whilst she murmured : “ Let us hope.” 

Mechanically she repeated : — 

“ Let us hope ! ” 

But the words sounded so false that Mme. El- 
lange and Marthe, having looked into each others 
eyes, turned away their heads and burst into tears. 
At that moment a step was heard in the vestibule. 
The door opened. It was M. Ellange, whose ar- 
rival along the road, a short time before, had es- 
caped their notice. 

He was so pale, so haggard that the mother’s 
heart guessed the truth. . . . With a great cry and 
outstretched arms, Mme. Ellange rushed forward. 

“ Jacques? . . . My son?” 

He bowed his head without replying. 

“ Dead ! ” 

Seeing her stagger, Marthe had already seized her 
by the waist. But Mme. Ellange, with a gesture 


138 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


of instinctive repulsion, as though her daughter’s 
hands were stained with some of her brother’s 
blood, freed herself. 

“ No ! no ! Leave me alone ! ” she cried. 

“ Mamma ! . . . Oh ! mamma ! ” 

Marthe, overwhelmed with grief, understood. 
Jacques! Her brother! ... It was her husband’s 
brothers, it was Otto, who had killed him ! 


VI 


Henceforth and at every hour Marthe felt an 
incessant reproach weighing upon her. She de- 
tected it in silences, allusions and reticences. The 
walls of the house, the trees in the garden, the 
things which Jacques had formerly touched, his 
closed room, their black clothes, — everything 
brought up the unjust and tenacious accusation 
against her. One alone paid for all : Otto was the 
incarnation of the execrated race, the symbol of 
invasion and murder. 

At first, however, after Mme. Ellange’s involun- 
tary gesture, a sense of their common grief had 
brought mother and daughter together. With hag- 
gard faces, they listened to the father’s broken 
narrative. At the ministry, in Paris, they knew 
nothing, had been unable to tell him anything. I* 
was on his return to Amiens that the Procurator 
had found a letter from Lieutenant Charbalye, 
Jacques’ friend, the comrade who had been pro- 
moted at the same time as himself. . . . Whilst 
pronouncing these words, M. Ellange had been un- 
able to resist glancing at Marthe. . . . She red- 
dened, so much do the most diverse feelings mingle 
even at a time of great trouble. Charbalye, poor 
139 


140 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


fellow! Yes, if she had followed the wishes of her 
parents, if she had married him instead of Otto, 
less rancour would have infested their lives. . . . 
With trembling hand, the father had unfolded the 
dirty, crumpled paper. Charbalye, who had been 
taken prisoner at Gravelotte, on August 18th, and 
sent to Mannheim, had been able to write these hasty 
lines in secret, in the train, and address them to one 
of his relatives at Geneva. After a six days’ jour- 
ney they had at last arrived, like a murderous bullet 
which finds its billet. 

“ Sir, however cruel it may be, I must carry out 
the promise which your dear Jacques and I made to 
each other. . . . He fell like a hero, struck in the 
heart, on December 14th, at half past eight o’clock 
in the evening. We had been fighting since four 
o’clock in the afternoon and the day seemed to have 
been won when, in the gathering darkness, we were 
unexpectedly attacked by a compact body of in- 
fantry. There was a momentary panic and our 
company disbanded. Jacques and I succeeded in 
arresting the movement of our sections and in ad- 
vancing, whilst the order to charge was being 
sounded on all sides. We were running side by 
side when I saw him put his hand to his breast and 
suddenly fall. ... I was unable to stop myself at 
that moment, but when the Prussians had been re- 
pulsed I found his body, half an hour afterwards, 
on the very spot where he had fallen. It was al- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 141 


ready cold. I closed his eyes, and never shall I for- 
get, sir, the serene expression on his face, that air 
of pride and peace. He in no way suffered. 
Happy are those who died thus, believing in victory. 
I almost envy him. His eyes have not beheld what 
ours behold: the excruciating pain of defeat and 
the shame of captivity. In your sorrow and that 
of your family, you have, sir, my heartfelt sympa- 
thy. 

“ Henri Charbalye. 

“ P. S. — Your son’s body was buried, with others 
of our regiment who were killed, in a trench at 
the foot of a pine-tree which I have marked, along- 
side the road from Mey to Villers l’Orme. I will 
show you the spot, but God alone knows when.” 

How many times this sad letter filled them with 
despair! Mme. Ellange carried it about with her 
inside her bodice. . . . During the first few days 
she was ever drawing it forth. And when Marthe 
said to her, “ Come now, mamma ! You are mak- 
ing yourself ill. Give it to me!” she gave her 
daughter such a look that she no longer insisted 
but bent her head. “ Who are you ? ” Mme. El- 
lange’s eyes asked. “ Jacques’ sister? No. You 
are Otto’s wife. It is one of his fellows who com- 
mitted this crime. You are accomplices.” At 
such times as those Marthe felt a desire to leave 
everything behind her, to flee like a wounded ani- 


142 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


mal. . . . Marburg and its tranquillity — the quiet 
little provincial town where only the old folk re- 
mained — called to her. There, she told herself, 
she could bury herself in the silence of her sorrow ; 
there, she would be less tormented, less tortured. 

. . . Then, as her mother’s excitement subsided and 
the poor woman fell into a state of deadly depres- 
sion, Marthe felt that her presence at home was 
more necessary. 

Mme. Ellange, seeing her injustice, endeavoured 
to remove all cause of irritation between them. 
She felt annoyed at having hurt her daughter’s 
feelings, as though Marthe could be considered as 
responsible, as though, on one side as on the other, 
they were not all of them the playthings of a blind 
and merciless Fate! Insensibly, after the first 
movement of revolt, she came, as a Christian woman 
should, to lay her sorrows at the feet of Jesus and 
humbly submit to the Divine will. . . . Every morn- 
ing she went to weep at the little church, where, 
with her face between her hands, she remained 
kneeling for hours together. 

Less of a believer than her mother, Marthe could 
not resign herself to accept the laws of Providence 
so unreservedly. Could it be possible, she asked, 
that it manifested itself by such impenetrable ways? 
She accompanied her mother as far as the porch, 
an ancient Roman vault where, within the inter- 
stices of the stones, wallflowers grew. The whole 
time that Mme. Ellange was praying, Marthe prom- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 143 


enaded along the cemetery’s narrow paths. Its 
wall overhung the road and the shadow of a tall 
lime-tree formed a circle on the hot stones. The 
bitter odour of box mingled with the strong scent 
of fennel which grew in tall bunches in an aban- 
doned corner. She sat down, feeling that her brain 
was a void. Around her little girls were dancing 
in a ring. Their silvery voices had all the fresh- 
ness of a babbling brook. They sang very ancient 
airs, the words of which, learnt in her childhood, 
rose from the depths of Marthe’s mind, to lull, with 
their sweetness the disorder of her soul. She al- 
lowed herself to follow the rhythm, repeated the 
ancient words : 

Bon jour, madame la Marjolaine, 

Avez-vous des filles a marier, 

Avez-vous des filles a marier? 

J’en ai une qui est bien belle, 

Qui porte de Tor, de la dentelle, 

Mais je ne puis pas vous la donner, 

Mais je ne puis pas vous la donner. . . „ 

Ni pour l’or, ni pour l’argent, 

Ni pour Tor, ni pour l’argent. 

Ni pour les grilles du couvent! 

Or else it was the melancholy and lilting refrain, 
to the tune of which the aged Julie had so many 
times dandled her on her knees : 

File, file, ma quenouille! 

Le temps passe, le temps va. 

File, file, ma quenouille! 

Le temps passe, le temps va. 


144 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Si le fil brouille s’embrouille, 

Nous le desembrouillerons. . . . 

File, file, ma quenouille! 

Le temps passe, le temps va. 

“ Le temps passe, le temps va ! ” — Marthe often 
found herself humming this besetting refrain. 
Yes; “time passes, time slips away!” It carried 
them along with it, — poor inert things, powerless 
pieces of wreckage. Like a mighty wave, it swept 
them along into the darkness. . . . Whither were 
they going? . . . M. Ellange alone attempted to 
react against the depressing pessimism which had 
invaded them. Since they had come within the 
shadow of the wing of Death, he had summoned 
all his stoicism to his aid. He stiffened against 
sorrow. With dry eyes, he applied himself to his 
work, — created new occupations. He re-opened 
dossiers which had been laid aside, absorbed him- 
self in works of history or law. He had replaced 
Horace, whose smiling philosophy was untimely, on 
his book-shelves, and taken to turning the pages of 
Lucretius. He feigned to take no interest in the 
newspapers and the sinister confusion of their items 
of news. But he carried all of them into his bed- 
room in the evening and the next morning appeared 
with red and swollen eyelids. He passed part of 
the night in weeping. 

People knew nothing, except that the army of 
the Prince Royal of Prussia was marching towards 
Paris. Strasburg, bombarded and set on fire, was 
but an island in the midst of a submerged Alsace. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 145 


Neither Bazaine nor Metz showed any sign of 
life. Mac-Mahon was the only hope. Meanwhile, 
through the wide-open breach, the invading forces 
poured in. Everywhere there was stupor, disorder 
and desertion. Four Uhlans had conquered Nancy; 
five, Chalons. Paris already imagined it saw their 
pointed helmets. The capital was getting in sup- 
plies and arming itself, amidst the immense commo- 
tion of the national guard, which, suddenly formed, 
was determined to withstand a siege under protec- 
tion of the forts. . . . The provinces were follow- 
ing her example. From the enthusiasm of the early 
days of the campaign, people had fallen to a state 
of dejection, fearing the worst would happen. The 
silence which followed on the formidable convul- 
sion of the great battles under Metz, still not well 
known, was pregnant with nightmares and threats. 
A black prelude to the supreme crash of the storm. 
Then, at the very end of August, Paris and France 
breathed again. The army of the Prince Royal 
had turned back and deviated towards the East. 
People spoke of successful operations. Mac-Mahon 
and Bazaine were manoeuvring in concert, and, their 
junction completed, would crush the conquerors of 
yesterday, disseminated as they now were. . . . 
Passionately, Marthe followed the vicissitudes of 
the struggle. Under the pressure of events and 
without her noticing it, a rapid revolution was tak- 
ing place within her. Her Germanic veneer was 
becoming thinner and thinner. Once more, in 


146 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


heart and in thought, she was wholly French. Yet 
she had not ceased to love Otto. But, as much 
through profound affection as through equity, she 
separated, isolated him from his surroundings. 

One morning in September, — it was Sunday, the 
4th, — M. Ellange, unnerved, he said, by the strange 
rumours which were again afloat, proposed to take 
luncheon in Amiens. They would thus be within 
nearer reach of information. Moreover, they 
would be able to embrace grandfather and Louis. 
With a weary gesture, Mme. Ellange agreed. Still 
bending under her burden, she took no interest in 
anything. . . . There was a lack of life in her 
child-like eyes, in her pale blue pupils. She had the 
appearance and the movement of a shadow. 
Whilst the victoria was taking them towards their 
house on the Boulevard du Mail, Marthe, aston- 
ished, contemplated her father. Seated on the flap- 
seat, he was trying to preserve his customary 
serenity. But, notwithstanding his efforts, he was 
unable to hide his emotion, which took the form 
of a nervous twitching of his cheek. 

“ What is the matter, father? ” asked Marthe. 

He ended by confessing, just before they reached 
Amiens. 

“ On waking this morning I received an express 
message from the President of the Court of Ap- 
peal. Yesterday evening he was in Paris and saw 
the Secretary of the Minister of Justice.’ , 
“Well?” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 147 


“ It is said that Bazaine has been unable to cross 
the lines at Metz, where the Prussians surround 
him, and that Mac-Mahon’s army, thrown back to- 
wards Sedan, has suffered a disaster.” 

“ Oh!” 

As white as a sheet and feeling as though all her 
blood had rushed to her heart, Marthe clasped her 
hands. 

“ But that is not all. The Marshal, seriously 
wounded, is reported to have handed over the com- 
mand to General Wimpfen, the whole army and the 
town is said to have capitulated, and even the Em- 
peror himself is believed to be a prisoner.” 

“ The Emperor a prisoner ? ” stammered Mme. 
Ellange. “ But, Lucien, what will that mean?” 

He gave a start. Yes; it meant the end of the 
regime, — a revolution. The Imperial Procurator? 
His position? What did that matter? ... He had 
served his country for the past thirty-five years and 
well merited a little rest. . . . His sole ambition 
was to live henceforth in solitude, with his books 
and his sorrow. . . . Did personal anxieties count 
on the occasion of such a catastrophe as this? . . . 
No, it was not a question of himself. . . . He con- 
tinued, in a pained voice : 

“ Yes, Marthe, that is what we have come to.” 

“ You were a prophet, father. You foresaw 
everything.” 

“ Not that ! no, not that ! ” 

The carriage stopped in front of the house. At 


148 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the sound of the wheels a window was opened. 
Julie appeared and exclaimed: 

“ Is it possible? ” 

Her placid face was agitated. That an Empire 
should crumble to the ground, was to her a matter 
of little consequence, but that her employers should 
come home unexpectedly, without ordering lunch- 
eon, was an extraordinary thing. Hastily closing 
the window she descended and appeared on the 
threshold. She assisted Mme. Ellange to descend 
from the victoria and greeted Marthe. As devoted 
as a dog, she had no other horizon than that of her 
servitude, no other liberty than the length of her 
chain. . . . She wore bran-new mourning. 

“ M. Ellange is there?” 

“ Yes, Monsieur le Procureur.” 

In M. Ellange’s eyes, there was, in his own house, 
no other M. Ellange than the Major. He himself 
was only “ M. le Procureur ” — for how many hours 
longer? — or, more familiarly, M. Lucien. 

Julie, with the rough frankness of an old servant, 
touched her forehead and said : 

“ He is there, but his head — ” 

Whilst M. Ellange ascended to his father’s room 
and Julie fussed about the kitchen, grumbling, the 
two women laid the tablecloth. Soon Louis ap- 
peared. They had not seen him since their de- 
parture for Pont-Noyelles. A long embrace united 
them. Words between them were useless. Mme. 
Ellange feasted her eyes upon him ; he was now the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 149 


only one of her children left; he was the incarnation 
of the two others, compensated for them, — Jacques 
for ever lost and Marthe, the married one, whom 
she soon would lose again. 

“ Poor Marthe ! ” exclaimed Louis. 

They held each other by the hand. And Marthe 
also felt that she loved him as though he were two 
persons. . . . She was infinitely grateful to him for 
pitying instead of blaming her. Humbly she stood 
before him. Everything in her seemed to say: 
“ You are good to pardon me, to understand that 
it is not my fault.” 

Louis quickly moved aside. 

“ Hush ! ” he recommended. 

He had heard the staircase creak under the foot- 
steps of his father and grandfather. The Major 
was in ignorance as to what had happened. . . . 
His mind was not very solid now. . . . Let them 
spare him as much as possible. 

“ I have persuaded grandfather to come down,” 
said M. Ellange, on entering the room. 

He supported the Major, whose tall body had be- 
come extraordinarily bowed, by the arm. The old 
man, as he hobbled in on his stick, was almost 
doubled in two. He had grown thin. And his 
beard, which he had allowed to grow for three 
weeks, gave his stony-looking face, with his large 
moustaches a rough and crabbed air, the aspect of a 
white boar. He stared suspiciously at his daugh- 
ter-in-law and granddaughter. Mme. Ellange, 


150 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


overcome with emotion, hid herself to wipe away 
her tears. 

“ Good morning, grandfather.” 

“ Aren’t you going to kiss us ? ” 

Louis and Marthe approached with extended 
foreheads. He appeared to recollect and tapped 
them on the cheeks. 

“ Yes, yes, you are a good little girl, Marthon,” 
he said. “ But why is she in black on the day of 
her first communion? . . . Good morning, Jacques. 

. . . Ah! ah! there you are in the new uniform of 
Saint Cyr. ... A corporal already? ... I con- 
gratulate you. . . . And what about Louis? 
Where is Louis? ... I don’t see him. ... At 
school on such a day as this ! You ought to have 
got him a holiday, Lucien.” 

He sat down in his seat, looking at everything 
by stealth. And whilst Julie was placing a golden 
omelette in the middle of the table he rubbed his 
hands together and cracked his bones. 

“ Nothing has changed here,” he said, “ since my 
return from Brazil. ... Ah! ah! There’s a fine 
bacon omelette ! The Emperor at St. Cloud doesn’t 
eat one as good as that ! ” 

With childish joy, he greedily licked his pendent 
lips. The spectacle was so sad that every one, for- 
getting his or her own sorrow, thought only of the 
nation’s misfortune. Above the derisive repast, 
above their commonplace phrases and evasive 
words, soared the image of France. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 151 


They had just seated the Major, with his pipe, in 
an arm-chair in front of the window when Dr. 
Nichamy entered. 

“ I saw your carriage pass in the distance, in the 
Rue de Noyon,” he said. “ I suppose you’ve heard 
the news ? ” 

“ No,” replied M. Ellange, indicating his father 
with a significant look. “ I was about to go out to 
get particulars.” 

“ Grandfather is sleeping,” said Louis. 

The Major, with his head thrown back, was 
faintly snoring; his extinguished pipe had rolled on 
to his knees. Dr. Nichamy, out of breath, told his 
tale quickly. 

“ I have just come from the Prefecture. M. 
de Guigne is in Paris. It appears that there is a 
night-sitting at the Chamber, where Jules Favre has 
laid on the table a bill proclaiming the Emperor’s 
deposition and the appointment of an executive com- 
mission. . . . They have separated without coming 
to a decision. They are to meet again at two 
o’clock.” 

“ So there is no doubt about it?” asked M. El- 
lange. “ I refer to Mac-Mahon and the Emperor ! ” 

Dr. Nichamy drew a piece of paper from his 
pocket. 

“ Here, read that. I copied it down at the Pre- 
fecture. It had just arrived.” 

M. Ellange, after making sure that the Major 
could not hear, read aloud : “ Proclamation of the 


152 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Council of Ministers to the French People. French- 
men, a great misfortune has overcome the coun- 
try. . . . After an heroic struggle lasting three 
days. . . One by one the brief phrases, announ- 
cing that the capitulation had been signed, that 
40,000 men and the Emperor were prisoners, struck 
their blow. . . . But Paris was in a state of de- 
fence; an army would soon be ready under her 
walls; another was being formed on the banks of 
the Loire. . . . M. Ellange’s voice scanned the 
concluding words : “ The government, in agree- 

ment with the public powers, will take any steps 
which the gravity of the situation demands.” 

Dr. Nichamy wiped his forehead. 

“ It is the end ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Yes,” moaned the Procurator. (( Finis Gal- 
lice! ” 

“No, father, it is the end of the Empire, that is 
all. France remains. The real war is beginning.” 

Louis’ voice trembled with enthusiasm and anger. 

“ Meanwhile,” reflected Dr. Nichamy, “ I don’t 
see what measures the government . . .” 

Louis interrupted him. 

“ There are no other measures than to proclaim 
the Republic and declare the country in danger. As 
in ’92. Let this government of incapables disap- 
pear! ” 

“ But,” murmured the Procurator, “ what about 
the Empress-Regent and the Prince Imperial ? ” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 153 


“ Why not Marie Louise and the King of Rome? 
As deliverers, I suppose? ” 

M. Ellange was about to protest when Marthe 
placed a hand on his shoulder and said : 

“ Look, father.” 

Every one turned round, stupefied. A hollow 
voice, which seemed to issue from the tomb, uttered 
the words : 

“1815 . . . the Invasion!” 

During that tragic minute all remained motion- 
less. . . . The Major, awaked by the first lines of 
the Proclamation, had heard everything. By a long 
effort he had risen to his feet and there he stood 
like a statue of the past. To his deaf ears the words 
had at first been unintelligible. Then the drift of 
the terrible truth had dawned upon him. . . . But 
the shock had been too great. A tumult of ideas 
rose and danced in his childish brain. Napoleon. 
. . . The Invasion. . . . Past and Present became 
confused. A look of unexpressible suffering ap- 
peared on his face. ... At the same time that his 
blood, in a red wave, mounted to his forehead, large 
tears silently flowed from the corners of his dead 
eyes. He tried to speak, but only raucous sounds 
issued from his open lips. At the same time that 
his reason returned to him, a little of his life slipped 
away; the hemiplegy had affected the whole of his 
right side. With his mouth askew, he slid to the 
ground. 


154? THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Assisted by Dr. Nichamy, Louis and Marthe, M. 
Ellange carried the old man, whose large body, 
though now a ruin, still contained an air of majesty, 
to his room. No one thought any longer of rebel- 
ling against the relentlessness of fate; every one 
submitted with bowed heads. Marthe and her 
mother set to work to act as nurses at the bedside 
of the Major, on whom the doctor had lavished a 
number of little cares. . . . An infusion was warm- 
ing in a kettle, over a nightlight, on the bedside 
table. Marthe was dreaming with wide-open eyes, 
seated at the head of the bed in which the old man 
was now calmly resting after a period of agitation. 
The three men had gone out, to rush from the 
Palace of Justice to the Prefecture and from the 
Prefecture to the railway station in search of news. 
The streets were filled with an anxious crowd. It 
had been decided not to return that evening to Pont- 
Noyelles, but to await events. Moreover, it would 
be two or three days before the Major could be 
carried there. 

It was long past nightfall when the Procurator 
returned home, alone. At five o’clock, the hour at 
which his leave expired, Louis had gone back to his 
post at the citadel. . . . M. Ellange, in company 
with the doctor and their friend, the First President, 
had waited at the Prefecture. ... At last, at half- 
past eight, a telegram had arrived. He copied down 
the text, because of the beauty of the document, 
he explained. Sarcastically, whilst his wife and 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 155 


Marthe were watching over the sleeper, he read it 
out : 

“ French Republic. Ministry of the Interior. 
The destitution of the sovereign has been pro- 
nounced at the Legislative Body. The Republic has 
been proclaimed at the Hotel de Ville. A Govern- 
ment of National Defence, composed of eleven mem- 
bers, all deputies of Paris, has been constituted and 
ratified by popular acclamation. The names are 
Emmanuel Arago, Cremieux, Jules Favre, Jules 
Ferry, Gambetta, Garnier-Pages, Glais-Bizoin, Pel- 
letan, Picard, Rochefort and J. Simon. General 
Trochu is at one and the same time maintained as 
Governor of Paris and appointed Minister of War, 
in the place of General de Palikao. 

“ For the Government of the National Defence. 

“ The Minister of the Interior, 

“ Leon Gambetta.” 

Three days later M. Ellange heard — without 
surprise — of his dismissal. He was replaced by 
Rene Goblet, one of the most highly esteemed bar- 
risters of the Amiens bar. Jules Lardiere, a Re- 
publican and devoted to Gambetta, had, on the 5 th, 
succeeded M. de Guigne at the Prefecture. When 
Mme. Ellange moaned over the brutality of these 
changes, her husband replied, simply : 

“ That is quite right. New men are required for 
new times. . . . We shall be able to set off again 
for Pont-Noyelles.” 


156 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


However, he retarded their departure until the 
nth. He could not succeed in disinteresting him- 
self so quickly in the affairs of the town. First of 
all, it was Dr. Nichamy, who had been appointed 
on the renewal of the Municipal Council, who de- 
tained him. . . . What, under present circum- 
stances, was the duty of the Council? Ought it to 
retire? . . . Thus the members would avoid the 
conflicts which, in all probability, would arise in the 
midst of political hatred and ardour. . . . M. Dau- 
phin, the Major, hesitated. Dr. Nichamy, fat and 
pacific, leant towards retirement. But M. Ellange 
dissuaded him. “ No,” he said, “ you are useful on 
the ambulance and succour committee. Dauphin 
and all of you ought to remain. You are known and 
you are esteemed. . . . God alone knows what our 
poor town is destined to behold. You, at least, will 
face all dangers, those of a foreign invasion and 
those of interior anarchy.” Then, after the election 
of the officers of the mobilised national guard, came 
their presentation, in the midst of great pomp, on 
the Place de l’Hotel de Ville. M. Ellange and 
Louis were present, mingled with the crowd, which 
was filled with patriotic enthusiasm. . . . Perhaps 
his son was right, thought M. Ellange, and the real 
war was only about to commence? His reason 
prompted him, however, to wish that they would 
rather think of peace. . . . What could be expected 
of improvised armies when professional troops had 
failed to obtain victory? By treating with the en- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 157 


emy to-day, they would obtain less burdensome con- 
ditions. The Republic did not inherit the faults of 
the Empire, if faults it had had. ... By laying 
stress on Metz and the still formidable army of the 
Rhine, and even on the new corps which were in 
formation, the government could honourably enter 
into pourparlers. 

“ And do you imagine that the enemy would re- 
spond ?” objected Louis. “ What they want — 
they have said so in a sufficiently loud voice — is 
nothing less than Alsace and Lorraine. Can we 
hand them over with a glad heart when Paris is on 
her feet, when Bazaine has 180,000 men on the 
model of Jacques, and when, behind those ramparts, 
the whole of France is arming herself? . . . Be- 
loved France! the Empire lost her but the Republic 
will win her back again ! ” 

M. Ellange witnessed this national ardour with a 
pride mingled with sadness and fear. He envied 
Louis’ youth and activity. He would have liked 
to have devoted himself, as he was doing, to a 
useful task. He suffered through being old, — a 
prisoner, as it were, of his age, his life, and his 
antiquated opinions ; he suffered at the thought that 
his fidelity to convictions and misfortune was inter- 
preted as “ bonapartism.” . . . The more people 
took this view, the more his frigid dignity increased. 
Under a hard ironical mask, he hid his face of dis- 
tress and sorrow. 

The orchard at Pont-Noyelles was made glorious 


158 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


by the luminous afternoons of September. Whilst 
the Major, stretched in an arm-chair on wheels, 
warmed his carcass in the sun, the ex-Procurator 
and his wife, drawn nearer to each other by the 
revolutionary storm, sat motionless under the striped 
parasol. Few were their words, but their sorrow 
spoke in unison. Sometimes, hand clasped hand. 
They thought of the dear one who had disappeared, 
his glorious death, and of the anonymous knoll on 
the road from Mey to Villers-rOrme. . . . They 
thought of Louis and the dangers which he would 
run if the enemy came as far north as Amiens. 
They thought of Marthe, looked long at her when, 
after she had bent over the invalid’s chair, she 
walked away, — her heavy figure apparent in her 
crape dress — and resumed her eternal promenade 
on the low-lying walk on the bank of the Hallue. 

. . . . Poor Marthe! sorrowful wife and mother! 
She was the one, after all, who bore the heaviest 
burden. . . . Under what reflexions did she not 
bend? What crushing weight bowed down her 
neck, the delicate whiteness of which formed a spot 
in the distance between her hair and her dark dress ? 
. . . And what about the child who would soon be 
born, — that son of Otto? . . . M. Ellange detested 
it already, just as he detested its father, that Prus- 
sian who had stolen their daughter from them and 
who was now, in the midst of blood and ruin, com- 
pleting his conquest ! 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 159 


When out of sight and hidden by the tall poplars, 
Marthe drew Otto’s two last letters from her pocket. 
One written after Sedan, and still vibrating with 
the enthusiasm which then filled every German 
heart, greeted in this unprecedented triumph the 
end of the war. Otto had not yet heard of the mis- 
fortunes which had overtaken them: the death of 
Jacques and the Major’s stroke. . . . He under- 
stood why, being fatigued, she had prolonged her 
sojourn with her family, and he rejoiced at the 
thought of their approaching reunion. The second 
letter, also transmitted from Marburg by Herr 
Rudheimer, was in reply to the one in which Marthe 
announced her brother’s death and her decision to 
remain at Amiens until the end of hostilities. . . . 
In elevated, firm and pitying terms, Otto associated 
himself with her loss and, foreseeing that the cam- 
paign would still be a long one, because of the agi- 
tation in Paris and the provinces, implored Marthe, 
as soon as her services were no longer necessary at 
Pont-Noyelles, to return to Marburg, via Belgium, 
and resume her position in the home. He con- 
cluded by citing the beautiful words used by Goethe 
at the end of Hermann and Dorothea: “ Let our 
union, in this general upheaval, be all the more close 
and durable; let us together courageously face our 
misfortunes; let us think of holding fast to days 
which ought to be dear to us, and of the possession 
of those good things which can beautify them. He 


160 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


whose mind vacillates in these agitated times ex- 
tends the disaster; but he whose soul is unchange- 
able creates a world over which he reigns.” 

Nervously she crumpled the paper, which was 
soiled on the back with a large blood stain. Doubt- 
less Otto had transcribed the poet’s verses on the 
corner of a badly wiped operating table. ... A 
feeling of anger at such serenity shot through her. 
It was easy to show oneself superior in the moment 
of victory. ... For the first time since their sepa- 
ration she felt a new impression as regards her hus- 
band. Until then she had retained his image and 
love within her intact. Not a particle of all this 
red mud had rebounded on to his dear noble face. 

She stopped, startled. For a moment Otto ceased 
to be the man whom, in his flesh and mind, she 
adored, — her husband, her companion, the father 
of the sweet little being who leapt and breathed 
within her. . . . He was a German, the German — 
he was the enemy. She stifled a cry. No ! That 
was both foolish and unjust. And summoning all 
her reason to her aid, she said : “ I do not wish, — 

I ought not to think that. We are neither of us 
responsible, we are but unfortunate creatures, who 
ought, courageously and together, to face mis- 
fortune. Let at least our affection and reciprocal 
confidence emerge unharmed from these harrowing 
hours ! ” But at the idea of travelling alone to 
Marburg she felt suffocated. She felt that she 
would die there. She needed the air of France. As 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 161 


long as this nightmare lasted she must remain where 
she was, in her place as a Frenchwoman, in the coun- 
try and the home of her childhood. . . . Moreover, 
she was indispensable to her disabled mother. Who 
would watch over and care for, as though he were 
a child, her aged grandfather, who continually 
needed wheeling from place to place, feeding, etc? 
. . . Otto would understand. She would write to 
him that very evening. 

But the letter remained unwritten and the days 
slipped by. Their monotony, at one and the same 
time interminable and brief, revolved around the 
Major, who, little by little, was getting weaker. 
His soul, however, continued in the depths of his 
feverish eyes, to burn low, like the flame of a night- 
light. In losing part of his bodily powers, he had 
recovered part of his reason. With his left hand 
behind his ear and an eager look, he took in all that 
was said around him; he insisted on being present 
whenever the newspaper was read aloud. Thus, 
under the plum-trees of Pont-Noyelles, in the warm 
clearness of those beautiful summer days, the three 
generations felt to the depths of their souls the 
dizzy confusion of the hours. Those tumultuous 
hours ended in the peaceful atmosphere of the little 
orchard and in the consternation of their hearts. 
They brought with them, like the roar of the tide, 
the ever-approaching echo of the on-coming inva- 
sion. 

The day after Sedan the army of the Prince of 


162 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Saxony and that of the Prince Royal of Prussia, — 
Otto’s army! — had moved forward with an ex- 
tended front. If, on the 5th, Montmedy had re- 
pulsed a sudden attack, the 6th German corps had 
entered defenceless Reims and, on the 8th, taken 
possession of Laon and its citadel, which had 
capitulated without a shot being fired. . . . The 
black wave rolled on from town to town. On the 
15th it was at Villers-Cotterets, Senlis and Chateau- 
Thierry. In front of it, through the destruction of 
the railways, the circle in the centre of which Paris 
was panting grew smaller. Between the 17th and 
the 19th, by crowning the heights and barring the 
roads, the investment was completed. Amiens and 
the North were cut off from the capital, isolated 
from the rest of France. . . . Only three members 
of the government, Cremieux, Admiral Fourichon 
and Glais-Bizoin, delegated to Tours, were charged 
with the organisation of the defence in the provinces 
and the maintenance of relations with the foreign 
powers, whom M. Thiers, entrusted with a semi- 
official mission, went to consult and solicit. But 
the nation had only herself to count upon. On the 
20th Jules Favre came into conflict with the con- 
queror’s voracity and unreasonableness. Before 
signing any armistice and as long as there were any 
soldiers or arms left, Bismarck would accept noth- 
ing less than the following inacceptable conditions : 
the surrender of Bitche, Toul, and Strasburg, the 
garrison of the last named a prisoner of war, the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 163 


occupation of one of the forts of Paris, and the con- 
tinuation of hostilities around Metz! 

M. Ellange confessed that Louis’ anticipations 
were only too correct. These conditions were noth- 
ing more nor less than a demand for Alsace and 
Lorraine. Consequently Jules Favre’s reply — 
“ not a stone of our fortresses, not an inch of our 
territory ” — seemed to him, however much he 
might be lacking in sympathy towards the barrister, 
to be worthy of a French minister. However, on 
September 27th, Strasburg succumbed amidst 
flames. Soissons was invested. Around the le- 
gions of the stationary national guard, which de- 
fended Amiens, Abbeville and Peronne, an army 
was formed, under the control of the Prefect Teste- 
lin, general commissary for the defence in the 
North, and his assistant Colonel Favre. 

Finally, on October 8th, people heard that Gam- 
betta, who had left Paris in a balloon to stir up the 
provinces and his colleagues at Tours, had fallen 
near Clermont and reached Amiens in the night. 
Unable to contain himself any longer, M. Ellange 
hastened, in spite of the mildness of the autumn, to 
leave Pont-Noyelles and return to the town. 

The air was so mild that morning that, after hav- 
ing installed her mother in the barouche next to the 
Major, Marthe stepped with her father into the 
cabriolet. A jaunting car, with the servants and 
the luggage, followed in the rear. As they pro- 
ceeded on their way, M. Ellange, with the end of 


164 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


his whip, pointed out the towers of the cathedral 
which rose up in the distance, dominating the wide- 
spread town, violet and brown, with its slated and 
tiled roofs. 

“ Do you recollect, Marthon, when you were ten 
years of age? One day we climbed to the gallery 
which, above a forest of counterforts and bell- 
turrets, runs round the building. It was just such 
an autumn morning as this. . . . The swifts were 
screaming and circling around the steeple. I held 
you by the hand, so that you would not be dizzy. 
Pointing to Amiens and the country which you 
could see as far as the horizon, you said to me: 
4 So all that, father, is France? ’ ” 

“Yes, I remember, — and also what you replied: 
‘ All that, first of all, and then a thousand, thou- 
sand times more/ ” 

She became silent, meditative. M. Ellange con- 
tinued : 

“ It was too large for you to comprehend. So 
you added, opening your little arms, ‘ No, to me 
France is what I see here, — look, what I clasp to 
my heart ! 5 And you joined your hands as though 
to embrace what you saw as far as the horizon/’ 

She lowered her eyelids to check her desire to 
weep. . . . How well she understood to-day what 
her childish instinct had whispered to her! . . . 
She was seized with a sudden impulse. 

“ Listen, father. I will write to-morrow to Otto. 
Considering the turn that events have taken, no one 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 165 


can say now when the war will end. It may last 
months and months. ... I will not leave you as 
long as a single German soldier remains in the 
country.” 

With a passionate look, she took in the narrow 
horizon in the centre of which rose the cathedral, 
with its two tall towers and its spire, and beyond, 
as far as the frontiers, the immense image of the 
Fatherland. She would have liked, as when she 
was a little child up there, to have opened her arms 
and pressed the dear bleeding country to her heart. 
. . . Marburg, the quiet intimate evenings they had 
spent under the light of the lamp, the piano in the 
dining-room of the Burgerstrasse, the feudal town 
perched with an Italian air on its hill, the pure 
towers of the Cathedral of St. Elizabeth, the Rud- 
heimers drinking to her health in Rhenish wine, 
sparkling in Bohemian glasses, Wilhemshohe and 
its park where the fallen Napoleon III now walked, 
the bed with its white curtains knotted with a ribbon 
the colour of hope, — how far off all this was, how 
quickly it was fading away into the past! . . . 
They drew near to Amiens and skirted the citadel 
in which, at that very hour, Louis was working in 
his soldier’s dress. They met vehicles full of arms 
and national guards exercising on the Chaussee 
Saint Pierre. ... A crowd had gathered from the 
Hotel de Ville to the Place Perigord. In the Rue 
des Rabuissons, alongside the Prefecture and the 
Musee, the cabriolet was obliged to go at walking 


166 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


pace, so thick were the people. M. Ellange gave a 
resigned look at the fagades on which the eagles had 
formerly spread their wings. Applause and cries 
of “Vive la Repnblique ! Vive Gambetta! ” burst 
forth. An open carriage came out from the court- 
yard of the Prefecture. Arms were raised in the 
air, heads were uncovered and hats were waved. 
Stationary by the side of the causeway, M. Ellange 
and Marthe gazed with emotion on the ardent seri- 
ous face of the young Minister of the Interior, with 
his long hair and fiery eyes. . . . They imagined 
they were looking upon one of those heroic mem- 
bers of the convention who carried the soul of the 
nation to the armies. . . . And without reflecting 
they simultaneously rose to their feet, they com- 
muned with the soul of the democracy, they shouted 
with all the strength of their instinct: 

“ Vive Gambetta ! Vive la France! ” 


PART III 





% 





VII 


“ How soon evening comes/’ sighed Mme. El- 
lange. “We must light up already.” 

“ Only four o’clock,” said Marthe. “ It will be 
pitch dark when father gets home.” 

They were at the end of November. That day, 
which was to be one of their last holidays, they had 
gone, after luncheon, to the cathedral, where the 
Most Holy Sacrament was on view in the Chapel 
of the Holy Heart. The whole town — the in- 
active middle-classes and the unemployed — was 
crowded there. A great religious impulse had 
united all classes, who had been drawn together by 
the imminence of the danger hanging over them. 
The Prussians were at their very doors. 

With bowed heads, mother and daughter sat 
silently knitting woollen socks, without losing a 
second, like women working by the day. Every 
afternoon, until the last glimmer of light, they 
worked thus in the window-recess, and at the same 
time kept watch over the slumbering grandfather. 
He had changed enormously, had become so thin 
that Dr. Nichamy, powerless to reanimate the 
great worn-out body, half dead already, and the 
life of which was hourly diminishing, began to be 
169 


170 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


very anxious. The invalid’s dry yellow hands 
rested on the white sheets. “ The oil is descend- 
ing,” the doctor had said the day before, on leaving. 
“ There’s nothing to be done!” Nevertheless, 
from time to time the flame burnt more brightly. 
The ordinarily expressionless eyes lit up with a look 
of anger and despair. They avoided saying any- 
thing before him now. Every piece of bad news 
threw him into a feverish state; he tried to pro- 
nounce a few words, but only inarticulate sounds 
issued from his throat, and such a look of power- 
lessness and distress appeared in his eyes, that 
Marthe was unable to support the sight any longer 
and, to avoid crying out, left the room, weeping. 
. . . The most terrible blow had been the capitula- 
tion of Metz in the last days of October. They had 
learnt the news through the English newspapers on 
the 28th. Louis was taking luncheon at home that 
day. Without thinking of the Major, they had 
read the maddening despatches aloud in the adjoin- 
ing room, — despatches announcing that Metz was 
in the possession of the Germans and that Bazaine, 
with 170,000 men, had been taken prisoner without 
fighting. . . . Painful, inexpressible stupor had 
overcome the old man, and since then he had not 
left his bed. 

Everybody had felt this incomprehensible sur- 
render of Metz as keenly as the Major. . . . After 
the great battles in one of which Jacques had fallen, 
after the catastrophe of Sedan, this disaster marked 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 171 


the definite downfall; — all that remained of the 
first forces brought into the field had disappeared. 
People could not understand, after such long weeks 
of inaction, the silent disappearance of an army like 
that, including three marshals of France, sixty 
generals, 20,000 officers, 173,000 soldiers, 56 eagles, 
622 field guns, 876 siege guns, 72 mitrailleuses, 
260,000 rifles and a huge quantity of ammunition! 
. . . What a tragedy must have been enacted in 
the minds of those brave men when they found 
themselves condemned to inaction in the midst of 
famine and mud! And what punishment, cried 
Louis, was too great for the incapable and criminal 
chief who had allowed himself to be deluded by the 
dream of a restoration of which he would have 
been the artisan and the beneficiary, and who had 
stupidly allowed an admirable weapon to rust and 
break in his hand! 

Whilst her mother was descending to the kitchen 
to see if the soup for the soldiers who were lodging 
with them would soon be ready, Marthe mused for 
a moment within the gathering darkness. 

What a number of things had happened since 
their return from Pont-Noyelles six weeks ago! 
. . . One fact dominated everything: her definite 
refusal to leave Amiens, her sick grandfather and 
the other members of her family so long as the 
war lasted, — her decision to be confined far from 
Marburg and the old Rudheimers. . . . Otto’s 
pressing letters — at first supplicatory, then couched 


172 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


in peremptory terms — had run counter to her well- 
matured plan. ... No, she would not abandon her 
mourning mother, bowed down by suffering and 
fatigue, — she would not abandon her only remain- 
ing brother at the moment of danger, — she would 
not abandon her native land when it was threatened. 
... In proportion as her gestation advanced and 
she approached near her time, a struggle every day 
more painful took place within her. . . . She 
evoked but with a feeling of uncertainty the still 
dear face of her husband, with its strong masculine 
features. . . . That was the Otto of the past, of 
the days of their fragile happiness! . . . That was 
the portrait which remained intact in the sanctuary 
of her memory. . . . But the other one, the new 
present-day Otto, — the Otto who was the incarna- 
tion of victory, she could summon up less clearly. 
Notwithstanding the kindness of his letters, he 
seemed to her to differ from the man he had been. 
Sometimes she thought of the time when they 
would meet again, the moment when she would 
once more see him. . . . How would she find him? 
It was not without a tinge of remorse, a painful 
embarrassment that she confessed her fears. Could 
it be possible that, on the eve of the long awaited 
day, the hour when their child was to be born, she 
was almost happy not to feel at her side the one 
to whom that dear little morsel of humanity owed 
its being? ... It was the fruit of their love, the 
best of themselves, the prolongation of their youth ! 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 173 


. . . Who could have foretold so unbelievable an 
occurrence? The father would not be there to 
raise in his arms his little Hermann or his little 
Frida. . . . But perhaps, considering all that now 
separated them, it was better thus ? . . . Poor dear 
Otto, — when would she see him again, and could 
she ever love him as much as before? . . . She 
confessed to herself how unjust it was to bear him 
a grudge, and yet she could not prevent feeling that 
the distance between them was growing greater, 
that the gulf was widening. . . . According to the 
most recent news she had received, Otto, after hav- 
ing proceeded to Paris with the Hessian division, 
to the ambulance of which he was attached, had 
been appointed as head of the medical service of 
the 3rd division of the reserve and sent to Metz. 
. . . Was he still there? Or was he following one 
of the two armies which, freed through the capitu- 
lation, had taken to the field again? . . . Was he 
descending with Prince Frederic Charles towards 
the Army of the Loire ? Or was he ascending with 
Manteuffel towards Amiens and Rouen? . . . 
Marthe was tortured by that idea. Until then Otto 
had been but a part of an anonymous conqueror and 
invader; he was nowhere and everywhere. . . . 
Thus she had felt but an indefinite sorrow. . . . 
But her cup of bitterness would be filled to over- 
flowing if, by an implacable fatality, he was one of 
those against whom — perhaps to-morrow — Louis 
would have to fight ! 


174* THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Mme. Ellange quietly entered the room with the 
lamp. Marthe rose, closed the outside Venetian 
blinds and drew the curtains. The slightest move- 
ment caused her to feel tired, and in bending down 
she felt such a heaviness that she put her hands to 
her back, complaining. 

“ Take the stool/’ ordered her mother, “ and 
stretch yourself out.” 

But Marthe shook her head, and seeing the 
Major’s imploring eyes fixed upon her went to re- 
arrange his pillows and kiss him on the forehead. 

. . . Ah ! if he only knew ! 

If he only knew what a hurricane had swept over 
the lacerated country and their anguish-stricken 
hearts since the surrender of Metz! One by one 
the fortified towns had fallen. After Soissons and 
Schlestadt, the enemy had captured Neuf-Brisach, 
Verdun and Thionville. . . . Werder’s troops had 
entered Dijon; the Bavarians, after beating La 
Motte-Rouge at Artenay, had occupied Orleans; a 
Prussian division had taken and burnt Chateaudun. 

. . . The black tide spread everywhere. In vain 
had Paris fought heroically at Bagneux, Chatillon 
and Bourget. ... In vain had Gambetta and Frey- 
cinet, stimulating the electrified delegation at Tours, 
made army corps, by a series of decrees, rise from 
the earth. ... In vain had Aurelle de Paladines 
gained the day at Coulmiers and, smiting the Bava- 
rians, retaken Orleans ! . . . Since then he had been 
cooling his heels there, whilst the three corps of 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 175 


Alvensleben, Manstein and Voigt-Retz were rapidly 
arriving. ... A bloody struggle was doubtless tak- 
ing place there at that very hour, just the same as 
another one was going to be decided in their pres- 
ence. . . . Marthe thought of the small number of 
combatants forming the army of the North, — 
80,000 men, people said, — who were face to face 
with Manteuffel and Von Goeben’s powerful corps. 

Organised by Farre, this army had first of all 
been confided to Bourbaki, after his departure from 
Metz and his journey to Hastings to see the Em- 
press. But the former Commander in Chief of the 
Guard, demoralised, had but passed that way, and 
Gambetta having called him to another post, Farre, 
whilst waiting for the new chief, the Senegalese 
Faidherbe, to arrive, had just taken over the man- 
agement of operations and massed three of his four 
brigades around Amiens. During the last two days 
the town had been swarming with soldiers, the 
streets had resounded with the noise of horses’ 
hoofs and the rumbling of military carriages and 
pieces of artillery. The town was occupied by the 
Lecointe brigade; Bessol’s brigade was drawn up 
from Corbie to Cachy; the Derroja brigade camped 
in the valleys of the Avre and the Hallue. It was 
in order to see to the accommodation of the staff 
of a regiment on the march, at Pont-Noyelles, that 
M. Ellange had left that morning. . . . They were 
going to be used then, those intrenchments which, 
during October, had been hastily raised on the 


176 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


southern front of the town: twelve semi-redoubts, 
connected by trenches. Five campements de bara- 
ques, each defended by 1,400 national guards, pro- 
tected them. Marthe and her father had several 
times been to see the men at work there during the 
last five days. A feverish activity filled them then. 
Without thinking of the fatigue, Marthe devoted 
herself to relieving the poverty which was increas- 
ing all around them. The last factories had closed 
their doors. Commercial transactions had come to 
an end, and so had daily commerce, except what 
was absolutely indispensable. . . . Everybody had 
stopped work, and every hour, as the enemy drew 
nearer, confusion and excitement in the town had 
increased. These were now at their height ; people 
lived in the midst of the emotion of the approach- 
ing battle; and, even in the silent house on the 
Boulevard du Mail, there was not one of the in- 
habitants but keenly felt its trepidation. 

A feeling of oppression, due to this waiting for 
the storm to break, seemed to reign in the damp 
night air, which, in spite of the closed shutters and 
the drawn curtains, came in from the inky darkness 
and penetrated the very souls of those in the room. 
On entering, benumbed with cold, M. Ellange 
seemed to bring the whole of the sinister night with 
him. 

“ Well ? ” asked Mme. Ellange. “ Have you 
housed them? You have done all that is neces- 
sary ? ” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 177 


Of a meddling disposition, she was secretly 
grieved to see her house thrown open without her 
being there, all the rooms occupied and the cellar 
placed at the soldiers' disposal. . . . For M. El- 
lange had decided on the previous day to distribute 
the contents of the two last barrels of Beaune, 
bought that year, to the regulars of Derroja. . . . 
She almost regretted that they had not had the open- 
ing to the cellar walled up with old stones and 
blackened plaster, as they had done that of the sub- 
terranean passage where their silver plate and most 
valuable furniture were concealed. She had a keen 
taste for property and that egoism which, capable 
of great sacrifices, was reluctant to make small 
ones. 

“ Poor fellows ! ” said M. Ellange, letting him- 
self fall into an arm-chair. “If only you had seen 
them emptying their quarterns, you would not re- 
gret your Beaune. . . . How they did sing! . . . 
By the by, I've lodged a company of chasseurs in 
the bam.” 

“ And supposing they set fire to it ? ” 

“No danger of that ! Do you know, good wife, 
it is a pleasure to rub shoulders with those jolly 
fellows. . . . This one had disparate weapons, was 
wretchedly equipped; that one didn't look with a 
very kindly eye on the officers. . . . Fugitives from 
Metz, eh? . . . But all the same they showed high 
spirits. They’ll fight with all their heart. . . . Ah ! 
how I regret that I am no longer young and have 


178 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


never been good for anything but talking ! I should 
have followed their example.” 

“ Take care,” whispered Marthe, indicating the 
old man. “ You will awaken grandfather.” 

They turned their eyes towards the alcove. The 
Major’s right eyelid was fluttering. So he was not 
asleep? . . . The shining pupil in that face of stone 
was then seen to turn ! It sought for something on 
the wall and finally was fixed on a collection of 
arms between the windows. In the midst of pistols 
and fowling-pieces shone the sword which the 
Major had used at Jena, Waterloo and Champau- 
bert. 

“ And I also should so much like to lend a hand, 
if I were able,” was the paralytic’s clear mes- 
sage. 

The 24th, 25th and 26th dragged out in the midst 
of a long and mournful immobility. Waves of 
disquietude and hope came with the sound of en- 
gagements at the outposts. Incessant movements 
of troops announced the final preparations. The Le- 
cointe brigade left Amiens to re-enforce the Bessol 
brigade; the Derroja brigade camped beyond Pont- 
Noyelles, towards Boves. Finally, all the national 
guards held themselves in readiness to occupy, at 
the first alarm, the line of advanced fortifications. 
. . . The noise of cannon, heard from time to time, 
found an echo in every heart. On Sunday the 27th, 
Marthe, although terribly tired, insisted on getting 
up and attending high mass. The horse was put 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 179 


into the carriage, for she was incapable of walking 
to the cathedral. 

When the barouche drew up at the foot of the 
flight of steps and Marthe Rudheimer raised her 
eyes, according to habit, to the massive fagade, she 
became dizzy and had to lean on her mother’s arm. 
Never had so strong an emotion seized her in the 
presence of the magnificent and sober architecture, 
the display of galleries, the immense rose-window 
between the towers, — that monument of human 
genius and Christian faith which, with its pillars 
and bell-turrets, aspired to heaven. She recalled 
the Cathedral of St. Elizabeth, raising to the sky, 
as though in supplication, its arms of stone, — she 
once more saw its altars, its stained-glass windows, 
its delicately carved columns, and the traces of the 
barbarous mutilations of the conqueror. She im- 
agined the three naves as they were under the 
French occupation, — used as a storehouse for 
fodder; she remembered the shame she had then 
felt. But at the idea that perhaps in a few hours 
German bullets would strike the “ Beau Dieu ” 
of Amiens, that their stupid cannon balls would 
graze and shatter its marvellous statues, that the 
roofs of the cathedral, with their forest of beams, 
might burn like those of Strasburg, she was over- 
whelmed with anger and hatred. She had at first 
detested the war, on account of all the evils which 
it brought the two nations. She had an equal pity 
for all who sorrowed, under whatever flag they 


180 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


might be. And then, had not France rushed blindly 
forward, carried away by her old bellicose spirit, — 
had she not been the provoker? . . . But hardly 
had Marthe experienced personal loss, than her 
feelings were modified, and little by little, as the 
whole truth was unfolded, she came to see things 
with other eyes. By all the defeats resulting from 
its confidence in the Emperor, and by Sedan, the 
conquered nation had been sufficiently punished for 
its pride and lack of foresight! ... A second war, 
after the Ferrieres interview, had begun, — a war 
declared this time by Germany and preached by her 
ministers, a war of race against race, a war of 
rapacious extermination and malignant ferocity, a 
war on their pockets and their lives. . . . Hence- 
forth everything which was slumbering in the depths 
of the Frenchwoman’s soul was awakened. The 
explosion was a sudden one, like that of a fire 
thought to be extinguished but which invisibly 
smoulders under the cinders, and then bursts forth 
violently. In contact with the earth and the dead, 
Marthe was once again the little inhabitant of 
Amiens whose clay had been kneaded and formed 
into shape by the traditions, customs and sky of 
Picardy. And instinctively, identifying in spite of 
herself this new war with those who were con- 
ducting it, she began, with all her being, to detest 
that Germany which she had so much loved and to 
extend her rancour to everything which bore its 
name. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 181 


A thought suddenly ravaged her heart, — Otto! 
A new being, an unknown one rose before her. He 
had the features of the old one, and yet so new an 
expression that she did not succeed in recognising 
him. She consulted her heart passionately. Did 
she love or did she hate that new Otto ? Her 
doubt was so poignant that a veil of tears prevented 
her seeing. She pressed- her mother’s arm more 
tightly. 

“ Are you suffering?” inquired Mme. Ellange, 
affectionately. “ But I told you. ... It was most 
imprudent ! ” 

Marthe shook her head. No, she was not suffer- 
ing in that way. And at the same moment her eyes 
fell on the load she was bearing, on her slow gait. 

. . . Then the consciousness of her helplessness 
crushed her. She was but a poor thing tossed 
about like a cork on the waves. The organ sent 
forth its droning appeal towards the vaulted roof. 
In the distance the forest of columns, the broad 
stone alley at the end of which, beyond the choir 
screen, stood the altar in all its golden glory were 
flooded with light from the tall stained-glass win- 
dows. The black and white pavement was crowded 
with people. The service had commenced. 

Covered with their thick crape veils, Marthe and 
her mother proceeded to their seats in the front 
rows. Inquisitive eyes followed them as they 
passed, indicated the ex-Procurator General. Un- 
der the black veil which completely hid her face. 


182 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Marthe experienced, nevertheless, a sense of shame. 
How many people, she thought, must be saying: 
“ There goes the German ! ” She seemed to hear 
the words and feel their lash. . . . Falling upon her 
knees in front of the prayer-stool, with her face in 
her hands, she began to weep in silence. Her sor- 
row floated upwards with the smoke of the incense 
and the sound of voices singing the Kyrie. Soon 
she would be a mother. . . . Up to that moment 
she had wished with all her heart that her child 
would be a daughter, a little Frida who would grow 
up in the quiet Marburg house, and in whom she 
would have loved to witness the reflowering of 
French grace, but with an added seriousness. . . . 
Now, however, and for the first time, she felt sad 
at the thought of the life she was about to give 
forth. ... So deep was her distress that she mo- 
mentarily regretted the maternity over which she 
had so much rejoiced. . . . She asked herself 
whether the little being whose eyes would soon open 
to the light of the world would not in his turn feel 
the effect of her wounds. German on his father’s 
side, French on his mother’s, from what difficulties 
would he not suffer? What mind would take the 
lead? What education — But at this point of her 
reflections a flood of light penetrated Marthe’s soul. 
No, she could not, without being guilty of sacrilege, 
regret having obeyed the eternal law. Oh! that 
the Mother of God, with that sweet smile which 
illuminates her long face, and which Marthe had 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 183 


so often admired at the Vierge Doree front of the 
Cathedral, would pardon her! ... A thrill of joy 
went through her; the child was turning. She 
stammered forth her prayer, as though it were a 
thanksgiving, — Ave Maria , gratia plena. . . . And 
with all the power of her will she wished that, in- 
stead of a daughter, she would have a son. Yes; 
a son! One after the other the voices of the two 
grandfathers came back to her memory. “ We will 
call him Hermann ! ” said Herr Rudheimer, with a 
proud smile. “ We will call him Jean Pierre ! ” pro- 
claimed the Major, raising his little glass of kirsch. 
. . . Marthe concentrated her mind on her desire. 
. . . Yes, let it be a son, — a son who would resem- 
ble her, be of her lineage, continue the race, — an 
Ellange, a real Ellange! 

When, at the prolonged tinkling of the bell and 
on the beadle tapping with his stick, all heads were 
raised, after the consecration of the host, Marthe, 
raising her veil, showed a serene face. Joyful 
song, mingled with the sound of the organ, burst 
forth from the bottom of the nave. Hope returned 
with a ray of sunlight which traversed the southern 
rose-window. A miraculous fiery rose was formed 
on the worn flag-stones of the transept, — a circle 
of trembling light: dark violet, mauve and scarlet. 
It was, as it were, a promise for the future. There 
had been a brief opening in the heavy, thunder- 
ladened clouds. 

Unable to wait until the end of the mass, Marthe 


184 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


hastily made for the door. She felt very unwell. 
When she issued on to the little square, the sun had 
again hidden itself. A distant rumbling was heard. 

“ Cannon ! ” murmured M. Ellange. “ In the 
direction of Villers-Bretonneux.” 

But Mme. Ellange, listening, declared: 

“ No, in the direction of Dury. They are fight- 
ing all along the line.” 

They returned home in silence. Marthe’s hands 
were icy cold. A cold perspiration broke out on 
her forehead. 

“ Whilst she is getting to bed,” declared M. El- 
lange, “ I’ll go fetch Nichamy.” 

Docilely, she let them do what they liked. She 
was shivering. Mme. Ellange opened the bed and 
Julie hastily warmed it with a warming-pan. 

“But what about grandfather?” inquired 
Marthe, anxiously. “ Who will look after him ? ” 

The old servant shook her white head until the 
strings of her cap danced again under her hairy 
chin. 

“ Make your mind easy about that,” she said. 
“ I can very well replace you. I got him to sleep 
not very long ago by singing to him as I used to do 
to you when you were little. Do you remember? 

Pomme de reinette, pomme d’api, 

Tapis, tapis rouge! 

Pomme de reinette, pomme d’api 
Tapis, tapis gris! 

He’s almost a child. . . . Ah ! woe is our lot ! ” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 185 


With the very greatest care she assisted her little 
mistress to stretch herself out. “ There now, are 
you all right like that ? ” she murmured, and at the 
same time she cast a tender yet blameful look on 
Marthe’s huge waist, — on that rascally little fellow 
who at any other time would have been the sole 
thought and joyous hope of everybody but who, 
ma fox, made his appearance like vintage at Lent. 

“ It will take place either to-night or to-morrow,” 
said Dr. Nichamy, pulling up the clothes under 
Marthe’s chin. 

Exhausted, he sat down for a few minutes and 
communicated his fears. The window-panes were 
constantly rattling through the incessant detona- 
tions, which formed a continuous and ever-increas- 
ing roar. 

“ They are in the midst of the battle,” he sighed. 

Dr. Nichamy went on to inform them that two 
days before General Farre, telegraphed for by the 
Prefect, who feared an immediate attack, had come 
to see that his plan of defending a stretch of 25 
kilometres of territory, from Villers-Bretonneux to 
the Pont de Metz, was impossible with the forces 
at his disposal. 

“ We have not more than twenty-two thousand 
men, against double the number of Germans. . . . 
But what are we to do,” Farre had replied to the 
Prefect. “ I must defend Amiens ; maintain, by 
guarding Corbie, the key of the Amiens to Arras 
railway, that is to say our line of retreat; and, in 


186 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


addition, retain communication with Rouen and the 
rest of France.” 

Whereupon he had left to establish his head- 
quarters at Corbie. 

“ It is very evident,” concluded M. Ellange, 
“ that, barring a miracle, Amiens will to-morrow be 
in the hands of the enemy, and that afterwards 
Manteuffel will quickly move away to fight the 
Normandy troops and take Rouen.” 

Mme. Ellange clasped her hands and exclaimed: 

“ But what about poor Louis at the citadel ? ” 

Marthe imagined her brother on the bastion. 
Doubtless, tormented by every echo, he was medi- 
tating over and over again on the subject of his 
powerlessness. If the little army which protected 
the town, and to whose voice, in the midst of the 
discharge of musketry and the booming of artillery, 
she anxiously listened, should lose ground, Amiens 
would be trampled on, the Prussians would swarm 
into the undefended town and over the ridiculous 
walls behind which Louis chafed. Constructed in 
the eighteenth century, the fortress was of no help 
whatever, — a plaything, but the possession of which 
was indispensable to the occupants of the town. 
What could the feeble guns of Captain Vogel’s 
little garrison do against the enemy’s powerful 
batteries ? 

Dr. Nichamy left hurriedly, for his presence was 
necessary at the Hotel de Ville, where he had organ- 
ised the ambulance service : seven doctors, each with 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 187 


two carriages, four nurses and some sisters of 
Saint Vincent de Paul at his disposal. The most 
trying hours were now beginning. People knew 
absolutely nothing, except that over there, on a line 
of villages which were taken and retaken, on a 
furiously disputed battlefield, — since the noise of 
the cannon neither moved away nor drew nearer, — 
Germans and French had been butchering each 
other since morning. About two o’clock M. El- 
lange went to the Hotel de Ville, in the hope of 
learning a few particulars. . . . On his way he met 
carts filled with wounded soldiers. Favourable 
news was afloat. The attack in the direction of 
Boves was said to have been repulsed. . . . Hope 
momentarily lit up every face. People who were 
entire strangers to each other shook hands. M. 
Ellange was able to seize the excellent doctor be- 
tween two doors, but, mopping his forehead and 
beaming with joy, he was unable to give other de- 
tails. . . . Information varied from minute to min- 
ute. People stood at their doors and on the squares ; 
accosted each other and asked questions. Ammu- 
nition waggons passed down the streets at a gallop, 
meeting breaks which proceeded at walking pace, 
jolting prostrate bodies. Darkness rapidly gath- 
ered. Groups of fleeing soldiers, black with pow- 
der, dust and dirt, were then seen to rush along; 
they had thrown away their rifles and were making 
discouraging remarks. Notwithstanding the fact 
that night had begun, M. Ellange, still confident, 


188 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


decided to climb with some friends, in search of 
news like himself, to the top of the highest tower 
of the cathedral. By the light of a candle, which 
fantastically illuminated the winding staircase, they 
reached the Galerie des Rois. With their backs to 
the rose-window, they scrutinised the already dark 
horizon, where large clouds of smoke were whirling 
round and round, with here and there red gleams. 
Fires, reddening the sinister sky, were springing up 
in the direction of Dury. The cannon no longer 
thundered except at intervals. Soon they ceased 
altogether, and this mournful silence, following, 
with the coming of night, on the day’s tumult, ap- 
peared to be still more intolerable, redoubled the 
alarm. . . . What numbers of wounded men must 
be groaning on the frozen ground, amidst the thick 
mist ! . . . However, on descending, they were able 
to exchange a few consoling words with an officer 
of the national guard, whose company had just re- 
turned to Amiens. . . . Nowhere had the enemy 
succeeded in breaking the line of battle. The army 
of the North camped victoriously on its positions. 

M. Ellange was in the act of proudly relating this 
result in Marthe’s bedroom, where, during his ab- 
sence, his wife had got everything ready in view of 
the great event. Marthe, with oppressed respira- 
tion, was faintly moaning. Suddenly old Julie 
rushed into the room to say that the Major was not 
going on at all well. He was continuously waving 
his valid arm, making an effort to speak, to ask for 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 189 


something. . . . She knew not what. M. Ellange 
ascended to his father’s room, but soon came down. 
With childish ecstasy, the old man had listened to 
the news of the victory, as he would have done to a 
marvellous narrative, and immediately afterwards, 
calmed, had dozed off to sleep. 

About ten o’clock in the evening, Marthe’s pains 
increased, so M. Ellange sent the coachman to in- 
form Dr. Nichamy. The man came back with the 
reply that the doctor presented his excuses but he 
would come as soon as possible, — in an hour or 
two. 

“ I don’t know what’s happening,” added the 
coachman in a low voice. “ The Hotel de Ville is 
all lit up. The doors are banging and the doctor’s 
face is quite put out. They say that the army has 
been beaten and is about to abandon Amiens.” 

“ Very good, Jean. Thank you.” 

Even M. Ellange lost his self-control ; depression 
followed so violently on hope that he dropped, with 
swinging arms, on to a stool at the foot of the bed. 
Marthe opened her eyes. Mme. Ellange crossed 
herself, murmuring: 

“ God’s will be done ! ” 

Marthe gazed at them, understanding nothing. 
She was so entirely taken up with her trouble. 

“ What is the matter? ” she asked at last. “ Are 
we beaten ? ” 

And without even distinguishing the meaning of 
the reply, the words of which fell upon her with- 


190 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


out, as it were, reaching her ears, she recommenced 
her groans, — a woeful being in travail. She was, 
at that moment, nature in the act of creating life. 
A supreme insensibility to everything outside her 
lancinating pains came over her. What did it mat- 
ter to her if a routed army was on the move 
around her, if hundreds of dead lay on the naked 
earth and the wounded shrieked in their agony? 
A single cry, that which came from her distorted 
mouth, covered everything. She was but a pant- 
ing, heaving body with clenched fists on the mattress. 

“ What a time Dr. Nichamy is in coming,” mur- 
mured Mme. Ellange as, distracted, she walked 
from the bed to the window and anxiously looked 
out. She, usually so weak, the personification of 
effacement, became energetic and could find virile 
phrases with which to console her husband’s distress. 
All his strength had left him. He remained mo- 
tionless, helpless on his stool. His thoughts wan- 
dered from his dying father to the endangered lives 
of his son and daughter. God grant that Louis 
would not fall like Jacques under a Prussian bullet ! 
God grant that Marthe would get over her trouble, 
that there would be no necessity to use the forceps 
— to protect her life! The idea of the possibility 
of an operation, of them having to choose between 
the child and the mother, flashed through his brain. 
The good man clenched his fists. If an existence 
was to be sacrificed, let it be that of the intruder; — 
let its weak breath be cut short rather than that of 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 191 


the one who was panting there on the bed! . . . 
For a moment there hovered over the magistrate’s 
austere soul, over that elevated mind which for forty 
years had demanded the application of justice and 
the repression of crime, a criminal desire, — the evil 
hope that his daughter’s confinement would end 
badly, and that his grandson . . . no, no, not his 
grandson, the son of the conqueror, the stranger, 
the enemy. . . . But immediately his good sense re- 
turned, and passing his hands over his forehead, 
astonished, he heaved a sigh of relief. 

Rising to his feet, he involuntarily looked in the 
mirror. A bitter smile hardened his glabrous face 
and tightly compressed lips. With a feeling of sad 
surprise, M. Ellange scrutinised that face which he 
thought he knew so well and in the depths of which 
the suspicious phantom of another self was lurk- 
ing, — that double which every one has within him, 
and which sometimes, in hours of stress and agita- 
tion, rises to the surface. He understood, at that 
moment, many of the psychological motives which 
had up to then escaped him, and of which he had 
been accustomed in his speeches for the prosecution 
to take so little account. . . . Man was but a poor 
thing ! Truly, even the best were not worth much. 

It was one o’clock in the morning when the doc- 
tor arrived. He threw his arms into the air. 

“ Ah ! my friends. . . . Let us first of all look 
to the mother.” 

Having examined Marthe, he heaved a deep 


192 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


breath. Good ! Everything was going on all right. 
. . . Marthe clenched her teeth, to stifle her cries. 

“Courage! fear nothing,” said the doctor. 
“ And shout as much as you like ; it will relieve 
you.” 

He put on a big blouse, got ready — unobserved 
by his patient — his case of obstetric instruments; 
then, at last sitting down, unbuttoned his collar, 
which was choking him, and took a deep breath of 
air. 

“ There ! On our left the Bessol and Lecointe 
brigades fought heroically. At Cachy, Gentilly 
and Villers-Bretonneux there were terrific struggles. 
Derroja defended his ground foot by foot at Saint 
Nicolas, Boves and Dury. But our troops are too 
weak in numbers and above all there is a lack of 
ammunition. A council of war has just been held 
at the Prefecture. With the exception of Paulze 
dTvoy, the generals are of the opinion that, without 
waiting any longer, they ought to retreat. They 
fear, considering the numerical superiority of the 
Prussians and the strength of their artillery that 
our batallions will be outflanked and scattered to- 
morrow. Better prevent a complete dissolution of 
these forces which have just proved their value, and 
thanks to which Faidherbe may soon be able to get 
together fresh bodies of troops! . . . Lardiere has 
telegraphed to Far re. They are waiting for his 
reply before beginning the retreat. Meanwhile, 
it’s Amiens who will have to pay the piper. . . . 


the frontiers of THE HEART 193 


We shall see Uhlan lances on the boulevard to- 
morrow.” 

A louder complaint than usual interrupted the 
doctor’s discourse. Marthe looked at him with the 
eyes of an animal in distress, with such a pained 
expression that Nichamy, hardened though he was 
by such scenes, was moved. In this case the flesh 
was less torn than the soul. He drew near to the 
bed, then, turning towards M. Ellange, said : — 

“ The moment is drawing near. You must leave 
us, my good friend. Courage ! ” 

Overcoming his trouble, the father faintly smiled 
at his daughter and went out of the room with 
bowed shoulders. He lingered for a moment on the 
landing, but the cries came in such a painful suc- 
cession that he could bear them no longer. In order 
to hear them less, without however ceasing to hear 
them, he descended to the dining-room, which was 
situated under Marthe’s room. There he listened 
for the sound of voices and footsteps, — dull, hur- 
ried noises which, from time to time, were covered 
by piercing screams. Once more the strident cry 
sang out, — then dead silence reigned. With his 
heart throbbing, he sought to learn what that dis- 
quieting silence meant. He imagined that, immedi- 
ately after the final moan, he had distinguished a 
feeble cry. . . . Confused thoughts mingled within 
him, — thoughts of death which had that day over- 
come so many, which, up there, in his own house, 
was completing its work, which was perhaps lying 


194 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


in wait for Louis, — thoughts of that life which 
flourished amidst so many cases of mourning, that 
little uncertain voice, so heavy already with anxieties 
and troubles. . . . The injustice, confusion, mys- 
tery of these things filled him with unspeakable 
horror. A door opened and a voice — that of Mme. 
Ellange — called to him softly. 

“ Lucien ! You can come up now. It’s a boy.” 

On entering, he perceived first of all but the re- 
arranged bed and Marthe stretched out with colour- 
less face and head lying on one side on the pillow. 
A look of infinite melancholy appeared on her wax- 
like features, at the corners of her drawn mouth, 
and on her lowered eyelids. He drew near. The 
eyes opened and looked out upon that household 
tragedy. No gleam of joy lit them up. The father 
and daughter looked at the little cradle over which 
Dr. Nichamy and the grandmother were leaning. 

“ He is enormous,” said the doctor. 

M. and Mme. Ellange contemplated, with deep 
emotion, into which there entered more aversion 
than tenderness, the little red-faced man who was 
their grandson, and who resembled Otto alone. He 
had his square face, his nose and his red hair. 

“ The likeness is glaring,” the Procurator could 
not help murmuring. 

But his wife, seeing Marthe’s anguish and the 
mute, bewildered look of inquiry with which she 
sought to learn their impression, corrected him : 

“ Do you know, Marthe, he’s got your eyes ! ” 


VIII 


The house was commencing to slumber in the 
pale dawn when the town was filled with detona- 
tions, cries and tumult. From five o’clock in the 
morning the retreat had begun all along the line. 
The army broke ground in four columns. Sinuous 
processions of men, horses and carriages wound 
slowly along the roads, or hurried through the thick 
fog, which clung to the soldiers’ faces and their icy 
garments like a shroud. At three o’clock the Pre- 
fect had hastily left Amiens and transported the 
headquarters of the departmental administration to 
Abbeville, leaving the Mayor the work of disarm- 
ing the national guard. On the order of this latter 
official the mobilises had assembled on the Boule- 
vard Fontaine. Many, having their guns — old 
muzzle-loaders — still charged, began to discharge 
them in the air before giving them up or throwing 
them aside. Immediately there was a panic and 
cries of, “ Here come the Prussians ! ” All the sol- 
diers remaining in the streets then made off at 
double quick -step in the direction of the Doullens 
road, where the crowd had collected. In the midst 
of a deafening uproar, artillerymen and sailors 
rushed furiously hither and thither around the 
195 


196 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


citadel. Soldiers of the line and national guards- 
men, so brave on the previous day, rid themselves 
of their knapsacks and weapons. The caissons 
crashed on to the pavements, whilst the gendarmes, 
whose duty it was to cover the rear, galloped, terror- 
stricken, amidst the ranks. Excited workmen wan- 
dered about in groups. The entire population, 
seized with madness, cried treason and shook its 
fist at the middle-classes and the priests “ who had 
sold the town ! ” And amidst the sinister dawn 
disguised street arabs went through the town sing- 
ing and dragging after them guns and sabres! 

Awakened with a start, M. Ellange, with his face 
at the window, listened with dismay to the rise and 
fall of this uproar. Little by little, as the day 
broke, calm returned. No movement yet announced 
that the enemy was near. Hastily dressing, he de- 
scended and, noiselessly closing the door of the si- 
lent house, went out into the street. He had not 
gone many yards before he learnt that bands of 
ruffians had profited by the saave-qui-peut to break 
into the Cerisy barracks and pillage the warehouse 
in which the uniforms of the national guard were 
stored. They had made off, too, with all the mer- 
chandise on the platforms of the railway-station. 
Anxious about Louis, he continued on his way to 
the Hotel de Ville, where a notice signed by the 
Mayor was posted up, announcing the departure of 
the generals and the Prefect. He heard there that 
Farre had left without giving any instructions to 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 197 


the commander of the citadel. In accordance with 
an order from Paulze d’lvoy, three companies of 
the national guard had taken up their quarters there. 
But what could they do with their wretched rifles? 
And what could be expected of the hundred and 
twenty improvised artillerymen of Louis’ battery, 
with their twenty-two imperfect guns, scattered on 
the bastions, against the innumerable cannon of the 
conquerors of Metz? ... It was rumoured that 
the Bishop had just made an ineffectual appeal to 
Captain Vogel not to resist. . . . Fine though hero- 
ism might be, M. Ellange feared the consequences. 
. . . The match was far too unequal; it was sheer 
madness to think of running the risk. Thus rea- 
soned the father, who took precedence of the patriot. 

He returned home in despair. The entrance of 
the Prussians into the town, — that is to say, the 
attack on the citadel, — was but a question of hours. 
He wandered from one room to another, attempting 
to look cheerful. In Marthe’s room, the sight of 
the child — the living portrait of Otto — was so 
painful to him that he could ill contain his distress. 
The fears of the two women mingled with his own 
to such an extent that the silence, after a time, be- 
came insupportable. Then, all words being useless, 
he ascended to his father’s room, in order to hide 
the welling tears. The tranquillised Major had 
had from Julie a confirmation of the victory; the 
Prussians on the previous day had been crushed, 
had fled in disorder. The firing and shouts heard 


198 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


during the morning were in celebration of the de- 
liverance of Amiens. Raised up on cushions, the 
old man was eating a panado which the aged serv- 
ant served out to him in spoonfuls with her trem- 
bling hand. He was as thin as a skeleton, his 
complexion was that of yellow wax, but in his im- 
mobile face, the muscles of the neck of which alone 
moved, every time he swallowed, his living eye sent 
forth a cheerful look. 

Suddenly, about three o’clock, there was a ring 
at the bell and the street door was heard to open. 
A voice below called out : “ Lucien ! ” It was the 

doctor. M. Ellange came out on to the landing 
and, leaning with his elbows on the railings, en- 
quired : 

“ Aren’t you coming up ? ” 

“No, if everything is going on all right with 
Marthe. I’ve no time. I’ll return this evening.” 

“What is happening?” 

“ Don’t you know ? . . . Why, they’re here. . . . 
They’ve summoned the Mayor to the Faubourg de 
Beauvais barricade. ... At this very moment 
there’s a squadron of blue hussars and infantry in 
front of the Hotel de Ville — reconnoitring the 
citadel. . . . And the rest are coming. . . . Can’t 
you hear? . . . They are passing within two hun- 
dred yards of St. Charles’ Hospice.” 

A shrill muffled music and the cadenced sound of 
troops on the march could be distinctly heard in the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 199 


distance. . . . There was the dull roll of drums and 
above this deep bass the piping of fifes. 

“ It’s the Barnekow division,” uttered Dr. 
Nichamy. “ The artillery is following. . . .” 

On the floor below the door of Marthe’s bedroom 
was ajar. Pale-faced Mme. Ellange was listening 
there. . . . The doctor’s voice filled the whole 
house, ascended with the mournful echo to the beds 
on which, with ears on the alert and their gaze 
fixed, lay the Major and Marthe. . . . Dr. Nichamy 
added : 

“ You’d better not see them! . . . Those Uhlans 
with carbines in their hands . . . and the batal- 
lions which follow one after the other with heavy 
step and in a line as though at the manoeuvres. . . 

His voice became tremulous : 

“ It is terrible ! ” 

Then, the door having suddenly closed, all became 
quiet again. But it seemed to all of them that they 
could still hear, with the ironical whistling of the 
fifes and the mournful roll of the drums, the insult- 
ing music, which, as it were, danced and trampled 
on their hearts. . . . Inflexibly the marching past 
of the enemy continued, and above that heavy hor- 
ror floated without end the triumphal air. They 
understood at that moment that all was over. With 
dry eyes they wept for their lost country. M. El- 
lange, biting his lips until they bled, mechanically 
returned on Julie’s heels to his father’s room. 


200 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Throwing her arms into the air, the old woman 
exclaimed : 

“ Jesus! ” 

With an incomprehensible effort, the Major, as 
though attempting to flee from the horrible vision, 
had just turned himself round with his face to the 
wall. M. Ellange rushed forward, and leaning 
over his father anxiously scrutinised the hard and 
sunken face, — those features which, about to dis- 
appear, had become dearer to him, incarnating, as 
they did, a long past, a multitude of recollections 
and their life in common. . . . Inexpressible sor- 
row had ravaged them, and in the old man’s only 
eye, the life of which was about to depart, a look of 
stupor also mingled with the vitreous shadow of 
death. The Major was no more. He had died on 
awakening from his dream. He carried with him, 
mowed down at one stroke, the laurels of former 
times, the whole of his glorious vision of the mag- 
nificence of the Empire. Piously M. Ellange closed 
his eye. Might he rest in peace with his faith! 
Old France passed away with him. 

Whilst his wife and Julie were occupying them- 
selves with the last toilet, M. Ellange went out to 
make the double declaration: the death of Jean 
Pierre Ellange and the birth of Hermann Jean 
Pierre Rudheimer. He returned immediately and 
buried himself in a corner of his room. Through 
having come into close proximity with the con- 
querors on the Place Perigord, through having seen 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 201 


disciplined ranks of heavy Pomeranians, with China 
pipes between their hairy lips, laughingly trampling 
along the pavement, he had come back with such 
a feeling of humiliation and disgust that for a mo- 
ment he had envied his father’s end, his eternal 
sleep. At least he had ceased to suffer ! What tor- 
ments were reserved for those who were left! 
Who could count, even in this abyss of wretched- 
ness, on having reached the bottom? 

When Dr. Nichamy came in the evening, and, 
after having saluted the Major’s remains, he had 
attended to his patient, the two men sat for a mo- 
ment with Mme. Ellange around the bed against 
which the cradle was standing. At the baby’s first 
cry Marthe’s motherly instinct had been awakened. 
She loved this little manikin with violet-coloured 
hands, miniature nails, large downy head, modelled 
on Otto’s, and, when his eyes opened, their dark 
beauty, hurt by the light. She had expected to hate 
it and was astonished to find that she loved it im- 
mediately; she was even pained to see the aversion 
— disguised but still visible — which he inspired in 
his grandparents. They affected not to occupy 
themselves with him, and as though he had not been 
there they bustled about her alone. But though 
they did their best to keep their eyes from him, they 
were ever returning to the innocent one, accusing 
him, as though he had been the cause of their 
mourning, as though he alone had been the whole of 
Germany, the living symbol of defeat and invasion. 


202 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Whilst Marthe lay with closed eyes, the doctor 
related the events of the day. The Mayor had been 
pushed forward as though he had been a shield, 
whilst the Prussian scouts had reconnoitred the 
citadel. Vogel having given a point blank refusal 
to those who had come to parley with him, Dauphin 
had been conducted back to the Hotel de Ville 
amidst the sly thrusts and insults of his escort. 
They were now occupied in piercing the houses be- 
yond the Faubourg Saint Pierre and alongside the 
canal with loop-holes through which they could 
rain down bullets on the bastions. They would 
doubtless open fire early to-morrow morning. . . . 
Meanwhile the pleasures of the occupation were be- 
ginning. 

“ You must be ready to lodge and feed some of 
them. Nobody will escape that. We have suc- 
ceeded to-day in finding accommodation for the 
greater part of them in the new portion of the Palais 
de Justice. But five thousand are announced! — 
infantry and artillery, dragoons and Uhlans. . . . 
Ah! my friend, I don’t know which way to turn. 
. . . The wounded are arriving from all directions. 
The hospitals are full. They are establishing am- 
bulances at the Seminary and the Museum.” 

He rose. 

“ I ought to have been far away already. I have 
to be everywhere at one and the same time. Here, 
at least, my mind is easy. The mother is in as 
good a state as possible. As to this little fellow ” — 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 203 


here he caressed the sleeping baby with his fat 
fingers which looked clumsy but were astonishingly 
soft — “ all he asks to do is to live. Eh? . . . 
He’s really a very nice baby ! ” 

Pressing his old friend’s hand, he added, gravely : 

“ One has departed, another has arrived. . . . 
Whither? Whence? That is a mystery.” 

Mme. Ellange raised her eyes towards heaven, 
indicating, with a look of resignation, the unfathom- 
able. They could do no more than bow before Him 
who governed all things and who had ordained this ! 

“ My dear Lucien,” said the doctor, “ here you 
are a grandfather. . . . Come now, look at your 
wife, who sets us an example. Let us endeavour to 
draw from our minds the noble sentiments which 
inspire her faith ! At times like this it is comfort- 
ing to believe.” 

“ But what are we to believe ? ” sighed Marthe, 
showing restlessness. 

“ What ! aren’t you asleep ? ” 

“ How can I sleep ? . . . I should so much like 
to do so. But I find it impossible. I doze off for 
a moment but obsession ever torments me. My 
ideas are continually in conflict. ... It is also in 
the name of God that the German armies do their 
duty and that Otto is our enemy! Another God 
who has his temples and pastors, and also presides 
over their victories ! ” 

Herr Rudheimer’s austere face was before her. 
She imagined she could hear his wrathful voice as 


204 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


he stood in the pulpit at St. Elizabeth’s. . . . Frag- 
ments of hymns rose from the depths of her mem- 
ory. But she was no more able to accept, as an 
effect of celestial tenderness, the evils from which 
they had suffered, — the death of the Major and 
that of Jacques, — than she was able to admit that 
the God of the protestants sanctioned their bloody 
triumph: Sedan and Metz, France at the last ex- 
tremity and Louis who on the morrow would be 
threatened by blind bullets. . . . With instinctive 
repulsion, she turned away from lutheran austerity, 
from that form of hypocrisy which she thought she 
detected in it. How could a religion claim to be 
impartial and just when it urged a nation to such 
ferocity, to such savage cruelty? . . . Disturbed in 
her faith, she felt a grudge against Otto’s for being 
immovable, and against Otto himself for thinking 
and acting like all his own people, according to his 
faith. She would have liked to have been able, in 
imitation of her mother, to seize hold of some 
branch or other, to feel that she was touching the 
solid ground. Everything was sliding away be- 
neath, within and around her. Everything was 
blood and darkness. . . . 

At eleven o’clock in the morning, after a final 
fruitless summons, the Prussians opened fire on the 
citadel. The rifle shots could be heard on the 
Boulevard du Mail. The garrison kept up a smart 
fire in reply and bullets fell even on the Place 
Perigord and in the Rue des Jacobins. Every one 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 205 


at the Ellanges’ was filled with anguish. Oh ! that 
Louis came out of it safe and sound! . . . Firing 
ceased in the afternoon, but they soon learnt that 
the respite held forth no hope. Manteuffel, the 
general in chief, had joined the commander of the 
8th Corp, Von Goeben, at the Prefecture and decided 
to crush the weak fortress under his powerful bat- 
teries on the following day. Forty-four cannon 
were immediately transported across the Somme on 
a pontoon-bridge. Twenty-eight others were being 
placed in position on the heights of Saint Acheul and 
at the Grace Farm. They would be ready to open 
fire at dawn. 

Marthe spent that abominable day almost alone. 
Her father and mother relieved one another near 
the Major’s body. M. Ellange had himself pinned, 
with pious fingers, the cross of an officer of the 
Legion of Honour on the dead man’s frock-coat. 
The gold enamelled star and the piece of scarlet 
ribbon evoked, on those remains and at that hour, 
the whole of the consoling past. 

“ It’s the ribbon which he wore at Champaubert,” 
said M. Ellange to his daughter. 

He had entered her room for a moment or two 
in order to occupy her attention whilst the carpen- 
ters were carrying up the double coffin. But, far 
from comforting Marthe, the idea of a departed 
glory made the present disaster merely the more 
bitter. 

“Poor grandfather!” she sighed. “I shall not 


206 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


even be able to kiss him before he is taken away. 
. . . What’s that? . . . Oh! those noises!” 

The staircase creaked under the heavy footsteps. 
Her cheek-bones were burning; her wrists and tem- 
ples were throbbing with fever. It was the flow 
of milk which was agitating her, combined with 
the state of enervation into which she had been 
thrown since the morning by the volleys of musketry 
and the commotion in the house. 

M. Ellange avoided her eyes as he replied : 

“ Still the drawing-room furniture which your 
mother is finishing removing.” 

Since morning they had been carrying the silk 
upholstered arm-chairs and the Boule bahuts into 
the attic. They were clearing everything away in 
view of the dormitory for the Pomeranians. They 
had decided, as the drawing-room was the largest 
room and capable of accommodating six mattresses, 
to empty it. The spare rooms, those of Louis and 
poor Frida, would thus escape profanation. As to 
those in which Jacques and the Major had lived, 
they would henceforth remain closed, like tombs. 
Should they also be required to put up some officer 
or other, they would let him have the room which 
Otto and Marthe had occupied. 

M. Ellange gave these explanations in a nervous 
voice. But Marthe indicated by a gesture that she 
could not be deceived. . . . The footsteps were now 
to be heard pattering overhead. She could hear, 
however lightly they put it down, the placing of the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 207 


coffin on the trestles. The next moment Julie’s 
apple-like, wrinkled face, with her fluted cap, ap- 
peared at the doorway to announce that: 

“ Monsieur is needed ! ” 

“ Go, father.” 

She could see the long pine-wood box and, sur- 
rounding it, the light-coloured varnished oak coffin 
with its silver handles. She saw for the last time 
the long bony body stretched out ; she saw the lids 
being screwed down. . . . And at the same time 
she saw the decomposed body of her brother under 
a knoll in Lorraine. . . . She would have liked to 
have got up and fled ! . . . She felt exasperated at 
being obliged to remain motionless, bleeding. Ac- 
tion would perhaps have alleviated, broken up her 
suffering. Whereas, stretched out thus, without 
being able to move, every sorrow, whether con- 
nected with family, town or country, came home to 
her ; she was the quivering centre, the target which 
received every blow. 

The funeral having been fixed for the afternoon 
of the morrow and no soldier having yet made his 
appearance, they were about to carry down the 
coffin into the drawing-room, where a chapelle 
ardente could be more conveniently arranged, when 
a brutal ring was heard at the door. After Julie 
had had time to parley in the vestibule with a 
quarter-master who held forth a billet of residence, 
the old woman, quite upset, came running to her 
employers. 


208 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ I can’t make head or tail of his gibberish,” she 
said. “ You’ll have to get Marthe to understand 
him.” 

M. Ellange descended. A mask of icy dignity 
stiffened his sorrowful face. He advanced, through 
an instinctive return to former habits, with head 
erect and that rather theatrical walk which he had 
formerly affected when the usher with his silver 
chain had announced the arrival of the magistrates 
by the words : “ La Cour ! ” . . . His pride awed 

the eight men who were standing below, joking, 
with their guns at rest and their knapsacks on their 
backs. They were fusileers of the 33rd Regiment 
and had come from the remotest part of eastern 
Prussia. Corpulent and red in their deep blue uni- 
forms, with enormous pouches hanging from their 
belts, trousers tucked into their boots, and cloaks 
rolled up, they presented, under their pointed hel- 
mets, surly-looking faces. M. Ellange was sickened 
by the smell of leather and damp cloth, perspiration 
and tobacco. He knew enough German to under- 
stand what the quarter-master wanted: mattresses 
and blankets, meat, potatoes, beer, brandy and 
cigars. . . . But emotion stifled him; he felt a de- 
sire to tell them in French all that his heart con- 
tained. This painful scene dragged on and ran the 
risk of becoming violent. A big red-headed fellow 
was grumbling and spitting on the ground between 
every two draws at his pipe. One of the soldiers 
then interposed. He explained that for three years 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 209 


he had been an employe of the Northern Railway 
Co. at Abbeville. 

“ Ah! ” thought the Procurator. “ One of their 
spies. That’s it ! ” 

The man translated without intermission and 
without too marked an accent. His comrades and 
himself merely asked for the regulation rations, 
and taking a dirty notebook from the quarter-mas- 
ter’s hands he read : “ Per man, 750 grammes of 

bread, 500 grammes of meat or 250 of bacon, 500 
grammes of potatoes with salt, 30 grammes of black 
coffee, 60 grammes of tobacco or five cigars, half 
a litre of wine or a litre of beer, and the twelfth part 
of a litre of brandy.” 

Come! Come! the conqueror had no intention 
of dying of hunger! Fuming, M. Ellange opened 
the drawing-room door and indicated the beds. . . . 
As to the provisions, that was all right, — he would 
see that everything necessary was done. Then, 
profiting by the interpreter’s good will, he called 
upon them to show respect for the dead, demanded 
silence and good behaviour. There was also in the 
house a young woman and a new-born child. The 
grandfather was about to say , — “ the son of one of 
your own nationality, a doctor, an officer. . . .” 
But a feeling of shame made him hold back the 
words. ... It was better to hide, as one would a 
vice, that cursed union. ... As the ex-railwayman 
interpreted, the arrogant looks disappeared, and an 
air of commiseration softened the men’s dark fea- 


210 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


tures, tanned by the severe campaign. . . . “ They 
made war but they were men ! ” said the quarter- 
master. Without replying, M. Ellange ascended 
the stairs. This change of attitude irritated him 
still more; he preferred their recent rudeness. No, 
he had nothing in common with these barbarians. 
He hated them, recognised in them so many Ottos. 

That night Marthe was unable to sleep. With 
high-strung nerves, she waited for the dawn to ap- 
pear and the cannon to thunder. Through the 
closed doors, the noise of the squad, attending to 
its need and duties, could long be heard. Loud 
laughter and fragments of phrases in German some- 
times resounded. On hearing the guttural syllables 
pronounced for the first time since she had ceased 
to speak with Otto she experienced a strange im- 
pression of surprise and sorrow. She felt a sort of 
repulsion on once more hearing the sound of the 
dear language, so profound and so beautiful, and 
to which she had become so accustomed that, four 
months before, she had framed her thoughts in it, — 
those words which had meant to her the revelation 
of love, the intimacy of home life, so many unfor- 
gettable joys. She could no longer appreciate its 
familiar cordiality. She continued to understand 
the sense, but, in these hostile months, even the sense 
became hostile. The “ gibberish ” which distracted 
old Julie and made the faces of her father and 
mother nervously twitch caused her positive physical 
suffering. ... Not until dawn did she find sleep. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 211 


A silent morning rose on their weary slumbering. 
They awoke fearing to hear the sound of the bom- 
bardment. But no noise troubled the hours, except, 
downstairs, the moving to and fro of the Pomera- 
nians, and, on the boulevard, the passing of fresh 
regiments, amidst the shrill sound of fifes. One 
after the other the bands struck up their victorious 
marches. ... A general rode past accompanied by 
his escort. . . . When, in the midst of a silent and 
meditative procession, the very simple hearse which 
bore the Major started on its way, the streets were 
full of squads of soldiers knocking at the doors in 
search of lodgings. The majority of the shops were 
closed, and but for the numbers of blue, grey and 
green uniforms the sidewalks would have seemed 
empty and the town deserted. Not an inhabitant 
of Amiens showed his or her face. After the rapid 
service at Saint Remy, M. Ellange, whilst walking 
bareheaded behind the hearse to the Madeleine 
Cemetery, learnt from Dr. Nichamy that the citadel 
had surrendered during the morning without a fresh 
fight. On the previous day Captain Vogel had been 
wounded in the side by a bullet ; he had fallen at the 
post of honour on the bastion he was defending and 
had died a few hours afterwards, at the close of 
the afternoon. Count Woirhaye, the oldest of the 
officers of the national guard, had succeeded him. 
... At midnight a conseil de defense had met. 
The guardsmen of the North refused point blank 
to continue so unequal a struggle, the artillerymen, 


91 % THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


who would have liked to have fought until the last 
gasp, saw themselves forced to point their guns 
against their own homes. . . . The only thing to 
do was to give in. And so, with death in their 
souls, they had hoisted the white flag. Van Goeben 
had granted them the conditions of the capit- 
ulation of Sedan and that of Metz. The officers 
retained their arms and personal effects; the mate- 
rial of war and the supplies passed to the conqueror ; 
the whole garrison became prisoners. 

“ And what are our losses ? ” asked M. Ellange, 
with a rapidly beating heart. 

“ Four killed, including the brave Vogel,” replied 
the doctor. 

“ And Louis ? ” 

“ Living!” 

“ Ah ! . . . Then he is safe and sound ? ” 

“ They know nothing yet. The Prussian fire 
was very severe. There are a fairly large number 
of wounded.” 

M. Ellange breathed again. Was Louis 
wounded? If that was their misfortune, they 
would nurse and cure him. . . . The essential thing 
was that he had escaped the only irreparable mis- 
fortune. ... As to captivity, that did not last for 
ever! 

In front of the citadel, where the procession had 
to turn to the left to reach the distant cemetery, Dr. 
Nichamy, continually hustled, made off. The 
wounded French soldiers had to be divided among 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 213 


the other ambulances of the town and six hundred 
beds found from one day to another for the Musee 
Napoleon, where a large Prussian hospital was to 
be established. 

Along the sad street of the faubourg, with its 
poor low houses, the funeral procession, much re- 
duced in size, wended its way. M. Ellange, uncer- 
tain as to Louis’ fate, had decided that, awaiting 
the solemn obsequies at Pont-Noyelles, his father’s 
body should be placed quite near at hand, at Amiens 
in a provisional tomb. Ten faithful friends fol- 
lowed to the cemetery the remains of the man who 
had travelled all over Europe, in the days when the 
golden eagles at the top of the flag staffs had flown 
from capital to capital. . . . M. Ellange thought 
of his father’s adventurous life. Twice had Jean 
Pierre Ellange seen Emperors, Republics and Kings 
follow each other on French soil, but never, in the 
course of those three-quarters of a century, had the 
country fallen so low. One had to go back to 
the darkest days, those of the English royalty, to 
find a similar dismemberment. . . . No, never, not 
even when the Major had gone to plant and harvest 
coffee in the sun of Sao Paulo, whilst the English, 
Austrians and Russians were strutting about the 
Place de la Concorde, had the nation experienced 
such debasement! . . . Whence would salvation 
come? Would Paris hold out for long? Would 
Gambetta succeed in meeting Ducrot with the pro- 
vincial armies? Would Trochu’s plan be realised? 


214 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


The problem was an insoluble one, or at any rate 
hidden in the uncertain future. . . . With dry eyes, 
M. Ellange saw the heavy yellow coffin descend into 
the freshly dug grave. The Cure murmured his 
prayers. The grave-digger, according to custom, 
threw a few shovelfuls of earth into the grave. 
They resounded lugubriously. It was the definite 
Requiescat, the farewell of everything which the old 
man who lay there, with his glorious recollections, 
evoked. ... It was also, for M. Ellange, not only 
the bankruptcy of the regime under which he had 
grown up but the bankruptcy of the whole of his 
interior life, — his family life shattered by the death 
of his father and son, his vie d’ affection for ever 
poisoned by Marthe’s marriage. . . . Ah ! Otto and 
little Hermann! . . . What sorrows were still go- 
ing to complicate his distress? . . . Night had al- 
ready fallen when he returned to the Boulevard du 
Mail. 

“ Things are not going at all well,” Julie an- 
nounced as she opened the door to him. “ The little 
one is feverish.” 

Marthe, under the flow of milk, had become 
delirious. She imagined she could see Otto, whom 
she thrust aside, with the supplicating words, uttered 
in a broken voice : 

“ Tell those men to keep quiet. . . . Their voices 
hurt me. . . . Hermann cannot sleep ... he is 
crying. . . . Everybody is crying because of them. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 215 


. . . Take them away, take them away immedi- 
ately! . . 

She did not calm down until very late, after her 
mother — worn out but still on her feet, mechanic- 
ally courageous — had twenty times renewed the 
cold water bandages on her throbbing forehead. 
The announcement that the citadel had surrendered 
and that Louis was out of danger brought but an 
infinitely sad smile to her cracked lips. . . . She 
passed a bad night. . . . Dr. Nichamy appeared at 
an early hour and prescribed what was necessary. 
But what remedies were there which could relieve 
her mental suffering? 

“ Is anything known yet about Louis ? ” asked 
the father, a prey to a fixed idea, as he conducted 
the doctor to the door. 

“ Nothing. . . ” 

The doctor evaded the question. On the thresh- 
old he inquired if M. Ellange knew of the notice 
ordering that all firearms owned by the inhabitants 
must be handed over to the Prussian authorities? 
. . . Thus, they would have to part with the Ma- 
jor’s old gun and pistols, Jacques and Louis’ fowling- 
pieces! Did they really fear that vengeful hands 
would seize them and that a war of despair would 
begin ? 

“ Meanwhile,” added the doctor, “ our money- 
chests are exhausted and I don’t know how we’re 
going to meet all our expenses. Yesterday we 


216 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


needed twenty thousand francs a week to provide 
bread for all the unfortunates who are unemployed; 
to-day we shall require fifty thousand francs a day 
to feed this rapacious army. We are overwhelmed 
with requisitions. ... We shall again be obliged 
to have recourse to borrowing.” 

“ Amiens is wealthy and will recover,” said M. 
Ellange. “ A financial wound is not a fatal 
one. . . 

Already, at the end of October, a loan of two 
hundred thousand francs had been covered in a few 
days. He himself had subscribed for several thou- 
sands of francs. . . . What would he not give to 
shorten the occupation and put a stop to all the 
houses of France being converted, like his own, into 
German hostelries ! 

“ And we’re only at the beginning,” exclaimed the 
doctor, pressing his hand. “ We may have to pay 
another ransom to-morrow ! ” 

“ What other?” 

“ Hush ! . . . It’s not certain yet. I don’t want 
to speak to you about it, in order not to give you 
too much joy.” 

“ Tell me.” 

“ Well, you’ll perhaps see Louis again if he’ll 
agree to serve no more until the end of the war. 
The mobilised soldiers who have been taken prison- 
ers will be sent to Germany. But it may be that 
the artillerymen will be authorised to remain in 
Amiens on parole. In exchange the town must 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 217 


pay a million within forty-eight hours. . . . Fare- 
well. We shall see you at Vogel’s funeral? Per- 
haps you’ll be able to catch sight of Louis ! ” 

Less anxious, M. Ellange reascended to Marthe’s 
room. . . . She listened to him and then reflected 
for a long time, whilst her mother was so overcome 
with pleasure that she had a difficulty in preventing 
herself from fainting. All she could say, as she 
burst into tears and slid down by the bed, was “ Ah ! 
mon Dieu ! ” Marthe then saw that her hair had 
changed from grey to pure white. She would have 
no more need to powder it to look old ! 

“ Listen, father,” said Marthe. “ In order that 
Louis may be free, give all the money which you 
consider ought some day to belong to me. ... I 
should like to contribute my share of the ransom. 

. . . I alone ought to find this sum. No more 
saintly use, indeed no other use could be found for 
that which later would come to me, and to which 
neither I nor my son have any right.” 

She reddened, ashamed. The idea that her for- 
tune and that of Hermann might some day be in- 
creased by her share of the Major’s heritage and the 
portion disposable through Jacques’ death seemed 
odious to her. For the first time she thought of it 
with horror. 

M. Ellange, having again put on his black frock- 
coat to go to Saint-Leu, where the Bishop was to 
preside over the ceremony in honour of Captain 
Vogel, had to promise to return immediately with 


218 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


news of Louis. He left the house at the same time 
as the Pomeranians, satiated and reposed, were 
leaving, with their thanks. They were going to 
join their regiment, assembled on the Esplanade. 
“ It appears we’re off in the direction of Rouen,” 
said the ex-railwayman, and by way of farewell he 
made the military salute, in French fashion. Once 
the soldiers had left, the lonely house seemed to be- 
come almost cheerful again, they felt as though they 
could breathe. 

Marthe, motionless in her narrow bed, under the 
heap of clothes which kept her in place, caressed 
with her right hand the face of her son. Hermann, 
blinking his eyes because of the strong light, vig- 
orously sucked her thumb. She pulled it away 
from him but he obstinately plunged it into his 
mouth again. He ended by becoming red with 
anger and, puckering up his face, crying out for 
his sweet plaything. At that moment he re- 
sembled his grandfather, the pastor, more than his 
father. She contemplated with astonishment this 
being whom she had moulded out of her 
own flesh and blood, whom she was continuing to 
nourish with her milk, who, apart from the spark 
of life, owed everything to her, and who already 
displayed a whole foreign lineage, the instincts 
of unknown ancestors, a dark flame which 
was now smouldering, but would one day burst 
forth! . . . Was he her son? . . . Yes, and at the 
same time, but primarily, the son of Otto, of the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 219 


Rudheimers, — their son! ... Yet she continued 
with her tender hand to stroke the child’s warm 
satin-like skin, which gradually smoothed itself out. 
Cries gave place to chuckling; the pretty mouth be- 
came like a cherry. . . . She felt that she loved 
the innocent little fellow all the more ardently 
because of her parents’ obscure dislike. His pres- 
ence was a comfort to her, prevented her from feel- 
ing lonely. . . . Where was his father wandering 
at that hour? . . . Was he near, or far away? . . . 
She felt annoyed at herself for not being anxious 
over the absence of news. . . . But, through a 
singular contradiction, far from hoping that he 
would appear, she now dreaded seeing him again. 

On hearing her father’s voice she gave a start. 
He was ascending the staircase, relating to Mme. 
Ellange and Julie that he had not been able to see 
Louis, who, slightly wounded in the arm, was be- 
ing attended to at the ambulance. . . . The doctor 
who was in charge of it, and next to whom 
he had found himself in the church, had reas- 
sured him. ... In a few days’ time, if the million 
were guaranteed, the artillerymen would be liber- 
ated. Louis, brought in a carriage to the Boule- 
vard du Mail, would be able to recover in their 
midst. . . . M. Ellange went on to relate how im- 
posing the funeral had been. It had been attended 
by General Von Goeben and his staff, the Mayor 
and the Municipal Council, and by all the officers 
of the citadel, provisionally set at liberty. Vogel 


220 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


had been buried on the Saint-Pol bastion, at the 
very spot where he had fallen. And when his cour- 
age had been recalled by his companions-in-arms 
and by the Bishop, Von Goeben, turning towards 
his soldiers who were rendering military honours 
to the dead man, had praised, as was right, “ the 
glorious end of a victim of duty.” 

Although it became more and more certain that 
they would see Louis again, the days which fol- 
lowed seemed very long to them. The doctor 
popped in to inform them that the Council had put 
its signature on ten bills of one hundred thousand 
francs each. Three councillors had left for Lille 
to negotiate them, whilst on the other hand the 
Mayor was going to try to raise the money on the 
spot. ... In case they were doubly successful, they 
would then have a reserve. 

“ Put me down for fifty thousand francs,” said 
M. Ellange. “ You shall have the money to- 
night.” 

And when Marthe murmured, “ Father ! ” he 
stretched out his hand. “ Let her touch no more 
on that subject. Let her cease tormenting her- 
self!” . . . When they were again alone, he told 
her so firmly. In his joy at finding the son for 
whose life he had trembled, still intact, — that Louis 
who was now all the family, he inclined to pity his 
daughter, felt remorse at having, in spite of him- 
self, wounded her feelings; and, to show that 
everything was forgotten, he bent over the cradle 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 221 


to place, for the first time, a pardoning kiss upon 
the forehead of his grandson. 

On December 5 th, in the afternoon, Louis, with 
his arm in a sling, descended, aided by a nurse, 
from the barouche in which M. Ellange had fetched 
him home. As he entered his sister’s bedroom, 
Marthe, who had not been informed of the sur- 
prise that was in store for her, uttered a cry, and, 
half raising herself up, in spite of her mother’s 
objurgations, long pressed her brother in her arms. 
He had grown thinner, his features were more 
virile and there was a sombre fire in his look. He 
then bent down and kissed his nephew, who, drool- 
ing, looked at him with serenity. 

“ Poor little chap ! ” he murmured. “ I find that 
he resembles you.” 

Notwithstanding M. Ellange who wanted to drag 
him away and Mme. Ellange who was appearing 
every minute to say, “ Louis, your bed is ready ! ” he 
refused to go to his room. 

“ All right ! I’ll come soon. But let me say a 
few words first ! . . . Ah ! Marthon, how pleased I 
am that you’ve gone back to your old room — the 
one you occupied when a girl ! . . We shall be able 
to chatter to each other as we lie in bed. . . . All 
we’ve got to do is to open the door ! . . . I thought 
of you all the time and how wretched you must be 
feeling. . . . Poor grandfather! ... As to my- 
self, the very devil was in me! ... You should 
have seen Vogel amidst the bullets! . . . They 


222 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


rained upon us like hail and he walked about 
amongst them with a smile on his face. . . . The 
Canailles! They were in ambush behind the octroi 
office, in advance of the Maulcreux fort, and shot 
at us from behind their shelter. . . . Vogel, in 
order to point the gun which I was using a little 
better, wanted to take aim in the embrasure. . . . 
Pat! a bullet struck him in the right side! ... I 
received mine a minute later. I’m lucky, for it 
has only grazed the bone. . . .” 

“ Come now, Louis, you’ve done enough talking,” 
ordered Mme. Ellange. 

“Ah! if I’d not been wounded I’d have done as 
our captain, Violette, did — refuse to give his 
parole! ... I should have left with him. . . . 
Who knows but that I might have been able to es- 
cape and catch up with Faidherbe’s army. . . . 
Ah! if every one had his own way! . . . War to 
the bitter end! We would succeed in our object! 
. . . We would drive them out in the end! ” 

He talked and talked, without noticing how he 
was hurting Marthe. He looked at her, quite pale 
and with his teeth clenched. He was about to 
murmur, “ Pardon me ! ” when an authoritative 
ring was heard, the street door opened, and the 
sound of voices and steps came up the stairs. . . . 
Almost immediately Julie came running in, beside 
herself. . . . 

“ Madam ! Madam ! ” she cried. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 223 


“ What is the matter ? ” stammered Marthe, not 
yet guessing the truth. 

M. and Mme. Ellange instinctively rushed for- 
ward, as they would have done to meet a danger. 

“ What is it?” 

Julie blinked. 

“ It’s a German officer, with his orderly . . . 
a doctor.” 

A flash of light traversed Marthe’s brain. She 
understood. 

“ Otto!” 

Her cry was such a piercing one that Otto Rud- 
heimer down below heard it and Hermann, suddenly 
awakened, became frightened and began to cry. . . . 
For a moment there was confusion. 

“ I implore you,” moaned Marthe. 

She pointed out the two men to her mother — M. 
.Ellange clenching his fists and Louis with suddenly 
flushed face — and, indicating the door of the ad- 
joining room, exclaimed: 

“ Go in there ! Quick ! , . . I will call you 
soon.” 

Then, collecting all her strength together, she 
said to Julie, whose aged legs were giving way with 
excitement : 

“ Ask him to come up ! ” 


IX 


“ You ! It is you? ” 

Her little burning hands pressed his, heavy and 
brown. With an anxious smile, she looked upon 
the dear features she had found again, — upon the 
identical face of former days. His complexion was 
a little brighter, his beard rougher and longer, but 
in the depths of his eyes there was ever the same 
frank look of affection. . . . Seated at the bed’s 
head, Otto replied to this look of ardent interroga- 
tion by another, no less profound. And both felt 
that this confrontation of their souls was a solemn, 
decisive one. 

“ Is it really you,” said Marthe’s silence, “ you, 
my dear husband, whom I find again in this being 
whose appearance is unchanged, in spite of the 
dreadful uniform which you wear? . . . Without 
it, without this disguise which makes you similar 
to those I hate, it seems to me that you are still the 
same, the one whom I loved, and who, during these 
long, these abominable months, I had, in spite of 
myself, almost ceased to love. ... For I never 
thought of you without picturing you as like those 
who killed my brother and grandfather, who have 
224 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 225 


invaded my native country, and who, awaiting the 
moment to dismember it, live upon it by murder 
and rapine. . . . But now that you are near me and 
that your looks pass tenderly from your son to me, 
I see that you are still the Otto whom I knew. . . . 
You are the first to suffer through everything which 
has separated us. ... You pity and understand 
me. 

And Otto’s serious, anxious smile replied : “ Poor 
dear little woman, sole source of my anxieties, how 
sorry I am to see you lying here so pale! . . . 
What dreary hours I have passed far from you! 
. . . How I shared your anguish and sorrow on 
hearing of Jacques’ death! ... A terrible fatality 
has weighed upon us, but such was the will of the 
Almighty, whose humble servants we ever are. . . . 
However, everything is not lost, since I see you 
alive and our little Hermann resting near you. . . . 
Have courage ! — have confidence ! — we shall still 
have happy days together ! ” 

Otto rose and, leaning over Marthe’s bed, again 
drew aside the muslin curtain which protected his 
sleeping son. The child, with its closed eyelids, 
bore such an astonishing resemblance to him that 
he was filled with a feeling of fierce pride. In 
spite of himself he rejoiced that Hermann dis- 
tinctly belonged to the race of the conquerors and 
that the least French blood possible flowed in his 
veins. He by no means felt an aversion for the con- 
quered and humiliated nation, — he had merely the 


226 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


feeling that she was suffering the consequences of 
a just law, the punishment for her errors and lack 
of foresight. There was also a sweet and generous 
France, — the one of whom Marthe was the image. 
That exceptional France made up for the other. 
He called to mind the Exhibition of 1867, the mild 
evening filled with lights and the sound of music, 
the huge fete in which the modern Babylon was 
taking part. 

“ What are you thinking about ? ” she asked. 

With that power of divination which the suf- 
ferer possesses, she detected an inimical inten- 
tion, — she was already on the defence. . . . She 
had lived too many hours far from him, and, dur- 
ing those hours, too many things had passed be- 
tween them, to prevent reflection coming after the 
primary transport of love. The past, however 
powerful and sweet it might have been, was not 
strong enough to replace for long the present. 

Marthe placed her hand on Otto’s shoulder. A 
feeling of repugnance came over her as her fingers 
touched the golden braid which indicated his rank 
and the sword whose knot lay upon the sheets. 

“ Sit down again near me. Speak ! ” 

Her emotion had subsided after she had started 
up in bed, with her heart ready to burst, whilst Otto 
mounted the staircase and entered the room. . . . 
They had looked at each other for a moment, em- 
barrassed; then, thrusting everything on one side, 
instinct had drawn them together. She had opened 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART <W 


her arms and without a word he had thrown him- 
self into them. After a long embrace, he had 
kissed her on the forehead, then, walking round 
the bed, had drawn near to the cradle, had raised the 
kicking, crying infant high into the air. He had 
rocked him in his arms> murmuring sweet German 
words. The astonished Hermann had calmed 
down and soon, tickled by his father’s thick beard, 
was laughing and drooling. Then Otto had 
stretched him out on his pillow, and, consoled, the 
warm little morsel of humanity had dropped off to 
sleep again. . . . This was their son, — the flesh of 
their flesh ! This it was which had drawn them to- 
gether, in the communion of the deepest human 
feeling. Such had been Marthe’s feelings on once 
more seeing her husband, and that is why she was 
already troubled on perceiving that, hardly united 
again, a disagreement was arising, provoked by the 
very bond which brought them together. 

But, determined to show herself superior to 
events, to remain worthy of the companion whom 
she had freely chosen, she clung to her fleeing 
tenderness, to intimate recollections, to everything 
which revived, exalted her husband’s unexpected 
presence. 

“ What miracle has brought you here ? How is 
it you did not tell me you were coming? ” 

“ Didn’t you receive my last letters ? ” 

He replied in French, without appearing to be 
surprised that, since he was there, she had avoided 


228 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


pronouncing a word in German. She felt grate- 
ful to him for his delicacy. 

“ None since . . . wait a moment ! ” 

She began to think. So many, many things had 
happened during the last few weeks! 

“ Nothing for a month! ” 

“ I wrote to you three times, — first of all from 
Metz, then from Rheims, and the last time when I 
got myself transferred from the medical service of 
the 3rd division of the reserve to the management 
of the large hospital at Amiens.” 

“ You have been nominated here? You have 
come. . . 

The sentence remained incomplete. ... Was her 
surprise inspired by joy or trouble? Marthe her- 
self could not answer the question. On seeing Otto, 
she had not reflected ; she had supposed that he was 
following his division, that it was traversing the 
town, like the other troops, and that, passing near, 
he had merely come to kiss his wife and son. . . . 
She struck her forehead. 

“ Why, of course. You didn’t even know about 
Hermann! ... You know nothing! ... It is ter- 
rible! . . . Oh! to have to live thus, in such days 
as these! . . . Each one going his own way! . . . 
We might die. ... I might have been dead for a 
week past and you would only have learnt the 
truth to-day ... So you don’t know what has hap- 
pened? . . . Haven’t you heard about grand- 
father?” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 229 


The shadow of death obscured their faces. 
Marthe continued. 

“ Yes, it happened last Monday.” 

“ How?” 

Ah! yes, how? . . . She hesitated. Ideas filled 
her brain, ran counter to each other within her. . . . 
They were so contradictory that she was filled with 
trouble. But truth carried the day. She con- 
fessed, almost brutally. 

“ On the entry of your troops. That killed 
him!” 

Immediately, on seeing Otto’s expression become 
severer, she regretted her frankness. His wrinkled 
forehead and compressed lips said clearly : “ How 

can I help it? That is the inevitable consequence 
of war!” He merely pretended to be sorry, be- 
cause she had been hurt ; at bottom he considered her 
unjust and was annoyed at her. . . . Repentant, 
she sought his hand, which he abandoned without 
rancour. She pressed it against her bosom. He 
displayed the egotistical gentleness of the conqueror 
rather than tender embarrassment. And yet he 
was intelligent and good. 

“ Can you feel how my heart is beating?” she 
asked. 

Otto felt the pulsation of her life beneath his 
fingers. It sprang, with the red blood, from a gen- 
erous source. And at the same time, through con- 
tact with that firm, sound bosom, a sweeter emotion 
filled him. Another source flowed there, that at 


230 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


which Hermann’s greedy lips drank. On feeling 
that existence, doubly his, palpitate under his power- 
ful hand, Otto, overcome, ceased to be a victori- 
ous German, intoxicated with his rights and his 
strength. He became a husband and a father, an 
honest man. At once happy and unhappy, the com- 
panions of former times, the friend of to-day and 
to-morrow. He was filled with an infinite good 
will. The doctor saw clearly. Since the begin- 
ning of the war he had come into contact with and 
had relieved so many ills! He would know how 
not to envenom the invisible wound. Little by lit- 
tle the injured Marthe would grow calmer, her 
wounds would heal. 

“ Dear wife,” he said, “ let us try and love each 
other, without causing each other suffering. There 
are enough outside causes of irritation and trouble, 
enough dangers that menace our mutual agreement, 
so let us strive to think merely of that which draws 
us together. The evil days will pass. . . . Are you 
willing? ” 

She carried his powerful hand to her lips and 
kissed it tenderly. 

“ I am willing.” 

He rose and said : 

“ And now I should like to pay my respects to 
your father and mother. The idea has occurred to 
me that I may be able, during my sojourn here, 
to live near you. In this way I shall doubtless be 
the means of preventing a heavier burden being 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 231 


placed on your house. Unless the entire army 
comes to Amiens, you will henceforth have to lodge 
only myself and my orderly.” 

“ Ring,” she said. 

Old Julie’s sullen face appeared in the half-open 
doorway. If thought had been capable of killing, 
her look would have stabbed Otto in the back as he 
was bending over the cradle in which Hermann was 
weeping and agitating his little arms. . . . But 
Otto rose, undisturbed, holding his son in his arms. 

“ He wants to feed,” said Marthe. “ Give him 
to me! . . . Julie, tell Monsieur and Madame that 
I am waiting to see them.” 

Whilst Louis was going to bed, as much in order 
to avoid seeing his brother-in-law as because he felt 
strangely tired and chilled, M. Ellange, who had 
retired to his study, was having a violent scene with 
his wife. The suddenness of Otto’s appearance, 
which was the very last thing he would have ex- 
pected, had thrown him into a raging temper. 

“ Since this man doesn’t possess the delicacy to 
understand that this is no place for him just now. 
I’ll give him a bit of my mind.” 

“ But, Lucien. . . 

“ There’s no ‘ but ’ about it ! ” 

In vain did Mme. Ellange, in her tremulous voice, 
urge her son-in-law’s rights. The Procurator, in 
the course of a desultory requisitoire / gave full vent 

1 A public prosecutor’s speech, pressing a charge against a 
prisoner. — Translator. 


232 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


to his hatred. He walked backwards and for- 
wards, banged the table with his fist and overturned 
an arm-chair. The sight of her husband, usually 
so calm, in such a state of excitement as this made 
her cower with fear. She presented a sorry object 
with her black dress and her red eyes. She had 
come to the end of her powers of resistance. She 
could neither be of any help to her daughter nor 
of any support to her husband. She was over- 
whelmed by the prospect of a perpetual conflict. 
Not satisfied with having wrecked everything 
around them, war had now entered the house and 
would daily preside at their board. 

“ For Otto has doubtless come to live here,” she 
moaned. 

“ That is the only thing lacking to complete our 
misery.” 

M. Ellange saw their meals poisoned, — saw 
themselves condemned, as it were, to spend their 
days in gaol. Otto living amongst them was com- 
parable to a carcan which holds a criminal in a 
pillory. A thousand times more cruel than the 
short stay of unknown soldiers, his presence in their 
conquered home would be an incessant, intolerable 
insult. Not satisfied with having taken their daugh- 
ter, the Invader, the Murderer placed his foot upon 
their throats, crushing and defying them as long as 
he liked. . . . 

Julie then appeared and delivered her message. 

“Very good! Come along. . . 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 233 


He hurried off in a determined mood. Mme. 
Ellange followed, supplicating him. 

“ I implore you, Lucien, to restrain yourself.” 

“ Let that pass ! ” he exclaimed. 

But the invective which he was about to utter 
suddenly died on his lips when, from behind his 
wife, he saw the following touching picture in the 
semi-darkness of the room. Marthe, with uncov- 
ered bosom, was feeding her son. Instinctively the 
child had taken hold of the white, blue-veined breast 
with his little hands. With an arm around his 
swaddled body, she was smiling at him with that 
divine smile which Madonnas have. Her other 
hand pressed that of her husband, who looked down 
upon them with an expression of adoration. On 
seeing this M. Ellange’s anger subsided and gave 
place to a sorrowful and complex feeling. Could 
he unreservedly detest this Otto who loved Marthe 
so much ? Under that hated uniform a pacific heart 
was beating. . . . M. Ellange stopped, put out of 
countenance. . . . The Prussian before him van- 
ished and became merely a man. Otto advanced 
and bowed with great dignity. 

“ I beg you to pardon me, Monsieur, for the pain- 
ful surprise which I have caused you. I hear from 
Marthe that my last letters have miscarried. Had 
that not been so, my appearance here would not have 
been so sudden. Believe me, no one feels more than 
I do the sadness of the circumstances under which 
we again meet. ,, 


284f THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ Father,” said Marthe, “ Otto has come to 
Amiens to direct the ambulance at the Musee. If 
you have no objection he and his orderly will live 
here.” 

“ In that way I shall be nearer my wife and you 
will no longer run the risk of being continually dis- 
turbed by soldiers with billets.” 

Taken unawares, M. Ellange intimated his agree- 
ment by a nod. Under Otto’s conciliatory attitude 
he could see but an impudent egoism, the free and 
easy behaviour of a conqueror. Touched by the 
attitude of Marthe and her son-in-law, happy to see 
the storm averted, Mme. Ellange, after having tim- 
idly consulted her husband by means of a look, said 
in her weak voice : 

“ Your room is ready. Your man can carry up 
your luggage if he is there.” 

“ Thank you. I will send him here to-night. 
Oh! I shan’t be here very often. . . . Don’t wait 
dinner for me. . . . And now, without delay, I 
must be off back to the hospital.” 

He added, not without nobleness, as he pulled at 
the skirts of his tunic, the collar of which had 
mounted too high : 

“ When, a short time ago, I entered those rooms 
of the Musee where formerly I experienced with 
Marthe so keen a pleasure, and saw them full of 
wounded soldiers, my return was, I swear to you, 
a melancholy one. . . . There are times when the 
duty of every one is disagreeable. ...” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 235 


He waited for a moment, then, seeing by M. 
Ellange’s unsympathetic face that his advance would 
not be accepted, he begged them, by a motion of his 
hand, to be at their ease, and, picking up his flat 
cap from the chest of drawers, brought his heels 
together and saluted. Then, after kissing his wife 
and son, he walked out of the room, without affecta- 
tion, with his head on high. 

Henceforth a difficult life began in the Ellange 
household. Otto showed perfect discretion and 
politeness in his relations with his parents-in-law. 
Pretending not to notice their involuntary repul- 
sion, — for M. and Mme. Ellange made an effort to 
be polite, he hardly appeared, ceaselessly occupied as 
he was by his absorbing duties. They avoided each 
other, exchanged but brief conversations, when they 
met by chance, between coming in and going out of 
a room. Their meals in common, which would have 
been painful, were, by a tacit agreement, suppressed. 
On the first day Otto had his luncheon at the hos- 
pital and in the evening ate with Marthe. The day 
afterwards, having come in late, he was served 
alone. M. and Mme. Ellange, sadly seated opposite 
each other in the over large dining-room, had al- 
ways finished dining by seven o’clock. As to Louis, 
in accordance with Dr. Nichamy’s orders, he re- 
mained in bed. A short interview had brought 
the two brothers-in-law together. Commonplace 
phrases had been exchanged, but it soon became 
evident that an insuperable wall stood between them. 


236 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


The varnish of civilisation cracked at the slightest 
word. They were no longer relatives, no longer a 
patient and a doctor, no longer men with acute and 
serious understandings, but irreducible adversaries, 
whose ideas, feelings and very flesh were in conflict. 
This secret violence was increased by the strength 
of their age. Both of them young and at the height 
of their vigour, they held themselves in with diffi- 
culty. Otto excused M. Ellange’s look of mute 
reproach because of his old age, but that in Louis’ 
eyes was odious to him. . . . Henceforth he deter- 
mined not to enter the young man’s room, although 
on the occasion of his rapid visit he had found him 
in a rather unsatisfactory state. He contented him- 
self with asking after him when he met his mother- 
in-law. She, in spite of her incurable regret at 
having lost her eldest son, did not feel the same irra- 
tional antipathy towards their guest. Mother-like, 
she was indulgent towards the man who had, at 
least, made her daughter happy; she was grateful 
to him for being full of attentions, for effacing him- 
self in this manner in a house of mourning. Anx- 
ious about Louis, she also felt a superstitious respect 
for Otto’s profession and reputed skill. The doc- 
tor ! — that was what she called him when speaking 
about him, or when giving an order on his behalf. 

. . . Thus a parallel existence was established be- 
tween them, — an existence in which, as each, 
through necessity, made concessions, appearances 
were saved. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 237 


Otto, after the first feeling of irritation caused by 
his parents-in-law’s reception, immediately began 
to console himself. . . . He had arrived without 
the shadow of a mental reservation, naively happy 
at the thought of seeing his wife again. Deprived 
for a month of news of any sort, he had anxiously 
calculated the days and found that Marthe’s confine- 
ment must be imminent, if it had not already taken 
place. He had earnestly hoped to be able to be pres- 
ent, to leave to no other person than himself the 
work of assisting Marthe and bringing his son into 
the world. For he had had not the slightest doubt 
on that score, — he would have a son, a fine little 
Hermann, a true German. He was glad that his 
eyes would open simultaneously with the birth of 
a new fatherland. Hermann would grow up with 
it, a child of United Germany. Born in the midst 
of the blood of war, he would benefit by a rich and 
glorious peace; it was for him that these great 
events were happening, that Destiny was being ac- 
complished ! 

Tossed about in the train of armies and absorbed 
in his terribly fatiguing professional work, Otto 
had lived those stormy hours as though in a dream. 
The man had hardly time to think, so close was 
the doctor kept to his work. A surgeon at times, 
with upturned sleeves, he was the personification of 
will-power, — he had to feel no pity, to diagnose at 
a glance, to amputate, to sew up wounds, or else to 
dress them, both those of the flesh and those of the 


238 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


soul. During the first part of the war, from Wis- 
sembourg to Sedan, he had hardly found a moment 
in which to rejoice over the victories which had 
been paid for with so much blood, or, anxiously, to 
think of the health of his wife and the ill effects 
which such shocks might have upon her. ... At 
first he had felt exasperated, on seeing that she could 
not return to Marburg and that, had she been able 
to do so, she would only have unwillingly resumed 
her position as a Rudheimer, near the pastor and 
his wife. . . . Then, the war having continued, 
against his hope, after Sedan, he had rejoiced, since 
France’s incredible obstinacy forced them to make 
a fresh appeal to arms and divine justice, that she 
had not left Amiens. Thus he would be able per- 
haps to draw near to her. . . . Cheerfully he had 
marched with the army on Paris and from the 
heights of Meudon had contemplated with joyful 
pride the great corrupt city, now within the grip of 
a circle of iron. . . . Ordered to Metz, he had 
sadly turned his footsteps towards the East. At 
last, learning that a small French army was being 
formed in the North, and that Manteuffel and Von 
Goeben’s corps with the third division of the reserve 
were going to march against it, he had gaily set out 
again and had not rested, Amiens having been con- 
quered during his sojourn at Rheims, until he was 
appointed to join the troops in occupation there. 
The protection of a friend at headquarters and the 
evidence of the services which he would be able to 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 239 


render, thanks to his particular situation, in a large 
town which was the centre of operations, had im- 
mediately resulted in his appointment as doctor-in- 
chief of the hospital. . . . Along the roads crowded 
with convoys had he joyously trotted forward on 
his horse. . . . Dear little Marthe! With what 
serious ardour he had taken her in his arms ! His 
love for her possessed a new shade: the good 
humour of the conqueror, a sort of ingenuous pride 
which took no heed of what the vanquished might 
feel but which, on the contrary, was flattered by 
such a possession. . . . 

One evening, after dinner, — it was on the second 
day after Otto’s arrival, — M. Ellange, with an anx- 
ious look on his face, entered Marthe’s room. The 
whole day he had been worrying over Louis’ health. 
On changing the dressing, Dr. Nichamy had made 
a by no means reassuring face, and, indeed, the 
wound presented a very bad appearance. The arm 
was swollen up to the elbow and of burning hard- 
ness. Headache and fever were incessant. Sur- 
gical intervention would doubtless be necessary. 

“ You must ask Otto to look at it,” said Marthe. 

But M. Ellange shrugged his shoulders. There 
were plenty of eminent surgeons in Amiens. His 
hatred against “ Herr Rudheimer ” had become 
more acute since the morning owing to the fresh 
catastrophes reported in the official despatches and 
the Abbeville newspapers. 

i( I haven’t told you yet in order not to cause you 


240 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


pain, for I suppose that the presence of your hus- 
band has not caused you to forget everything else.” 

“Oh! Father. . . 

He unburdened his soul. Misfortunes came one 
after the other. France had just suffered two fresh 
defeats, at Paris and on the Loire. The capital had 
attempted a sortie, in the direction of the Marne. 
For three days Ducrot’s army, attempting to break 
a way through, had heroically struggled on the 
plateaus of Villiers and Champigny with the Prince 
of Saxony’s huge forces. Paris, after rushing for- 
ward with her head down, had again been driven 
back to her prison. At the same hour Prince 
Frederic Charles barred, at Loigny, the road by way 
of which D’Aurelle and Chanzy had set out to the 
assistance of the besieged. The army of the Loire, 
shattered at the first shock, had been crushed on the 
following days around Orleans and had had to evac- 
uate the town. For the second time the Germans 
had entered it as masters. . . . The hope — cher- 
ished for a moment — of forming a junction had 
vanished. 

“ I don’t want to be a bad prophet,” added M. 
Ellange, “but you must see, little one, that, with 
these two battles, we lose all chance now of success. 
. . . Paris is definitely cut off from the provinces. 
Our principal army no longer exists. . . . Rouen is 
also in the power of the Prussians, since the day 
before yesterday.” 

He listened. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 241 


“ I can hear your husband’s footstep. I do not 
wish to witness his joy.” 

He hurriedly knocked at Louis’ door, which, al- 
most always locked since Otto’s arrival, was only 
opened during the hours that the doctor was at the 
Musee. It was then that the brother and sister, as 
they lay in bed, exchanged their brief conversations. 
Their fellowship was spoilt by the intervention of a 
third person in their thoughts, by his invisible pres- 
ence. . . . They did not love each other any the less 
but they suffered through not being able to express 
their love unreservedly. 

“ Quick, my good wife ! ” 

Mme. Ellange, who was watching over her sleep- 
less son, had just time to open and shut the door 
again. Otto was knocking. Marthe waited for a 
moment. 

“ Come in,” she said at last, in an altered voice. 

Otto appeared, — tired out. She searched his 
face for the reflection of his soul. She felt that she, 
would have detested him had she found him cheer- 
ful. But, depressed by his anxieties and daily work, 
his only thought was of the delight of being able 
to breathe freely in an agreeable atmosphere. He 
embraced Marthe affectionately; then smiled at his 
son, who was sleeping. 

“ Take care, or you will wake him up with your 
beard,” said Marthe. 

Drawing one of the low arm-chairs near to the 
bed, he sat down, but not without having regarded 


24,2 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the pale blue silk upholstering with an air of censure. 
This was a very good example, he thought, of the 
expensive tastes, the luxury of the frivolous French 
nation! At Marburg the reclining arm-chair was 
covered with strong green reps. 

“ Thank goodness ! How good it is to get back 
to you! . . . Poor Marburg! How far off it is! 

. . . Ah! When will this wretched war be over? ” 

She felt grateful to him for making no allusion 
to recent victories and frankly replied: 

“ But, Otto, doesn’t that depend upon Prussia ? ” 

He sought to read her thoughts. 

“ In what way ? ” 

She suddenly regretted her words. On what a 
bloody, slippery ground had she not advanced ? . . . 
She had already felt, on the previous day, that, apart 
from their family life, — the narrow pathway along 
which they might still walk together, — they were 
surrounded by sloughs and thorny bushes. ... At 
the slightest deviation their ways would diverge and 
suddenly a precipice would yawn in front of them. 
She shook her head. 

“ No, I beg your pardon ! We’d better not talk 
about that.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Don’t you understand ? ” 

“ I must confess I don’t.” 

Thus, placidly proud, surfeited by so many suc- 
cesses, and also firmly confident in the support of 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 243 


his God, he did not even think that, on the evening 
of a double defeat, she would be sad! It never oc- 
curred to him that she must necessarily be cruelly 
suffering, and that, through a feeling of shame, it 
was repugnant to her to defend France in his pres- 
ence. 

“ Very well!” she exclaimed, sharply, so much 
was the wound smarting. “ Since you wish it, I 
will tell you.” 

She stopped short and reflected on the step she 
was taking. It was madness! But he, with his 
double superiority as a man and a conqueror, urged 
her on. 

“ You must speak, now.” 

“ Well, I think that enough blood has now been 
spilt by the two armies, and that Prussia has con- 
quered sufficient flags, guns, men and towns to en- 
able her to show generosity and offer to make 
peace.” 

“ But, my dear wife, Gambetta is so persuaded 
that by force of eloquence he will end in triumphing 
over Germany! . . . Your obstinate counsellors 
wouldn’t accept peace if we offered it to them! . . . 
You may be certain that you alone now force us to 
make war ! ” 

She looked at him, astounded. In the mouth of 
another person she would have thought that these 
words were uttered sarcastically. But Otto was 


sincere. 


244 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ What nation could accept the conditions which 
you offer without dishonour? So long as a valid 
man remains in France . . 

She checked herself, frightened by the pitch of 
her own voice. With more sadness than astonish- 
ment, Otto looked at her. By her submission and 
tenderness, she had seemed up to then to be an in- 
tegral part of himself. The love which he bore 
her, and which in the beginning had been troubled 
by Marthe’s French frivolity (so did he style her 
romantic grace and fine sensibility), — that calm, 
serious love had long felt reassured. There entered 
into it a feeling of esteem for the really German 
qualities which Marthe had shown at Marburg : her 
intelligence, seriousness and devotion. There also 
entered into it a feeling of pleasure at the idea that 
henceforth he possessed a conquered place, that 
teutonic superiority had done its work, and that, 
moreover, it was inevitable and just! . . . But one 
had always to be on one’s guard against this change- 
able France, — he ought to have expected it! And 
that is why he felt less surprised than hurt! . . . 
He did not yet bear a grudge against Marthe for 
misappreciating him, by misappreciating the virtues 
and rights of his race; but he suffered through her 
change of attitude, as he would have done had a 
friend betrayed him. Convinced of the rightfulness 
of his cause, he did not even think of explaining — 
even with the idea of excusing them — the reasons 
which persuaded Marthe that her point of view was 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 245 


the right one. With a piercing look, she followed 
and read his thoughts. She showed no surprise 
when, in a morose tone, he said : 

“ Germany is only claiming German territory. I 
agree with you that it is sad her unity should be 
cemented with blood. But that is an inevitable law. 
Nothing is created without a struggle and without 
pain. ... If you were not led away by your patri- 
otism, you would recognise how moderate we are in 
our demands.” 

Tranquilly, he then began to explain, with respect 
to the appointment of German officials to the civil 
administration (the Commissary Sultzer replaced 
Lardiere at the Prefecture), the way they were 
governing the country. Three general govern- 
ments, those of Alsace, Lorraine and Rheims, ruled 
up to there the conquered territory; a fourth had 
just been established, that of Versailles, with which 
the departments of the Oise, the Seine Inferieure 
and the Somme were connected. And that was 
necessary, since the former government of the Em- 
pire no longer existed and the new one was not 
recognised by the people. So long as a Constituent 
Assembly had not chosen a new form of govern- 
ment, the Republic was but anarchy, and Prefect 
Sultzer had done quite right to abolish, in the name 
of the King of Prussia, the laws and decrees of the 
Government of the Defence as regards conscription 
and a universal levy of soldiers. . . . 

With closed eyes, Marthe listened, but she did not 


246 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


deign to reply. She felt, with astonishment, how 
different this man who was speaking with peaceful, 
authoritative voice was from the one she had loved 
before the war, — that good, intelligent, delicate 
Otto. Could it be that the one who gathered with 
her on the Werda road the Elisabethenbliimchen, 
with which she had garnished the Delft flower-vase, 
the one who listened with rapturous air to the 
sonata in re, her companion in Italy, the savant 
who taught at the University the art of combating 
suffering and death, was this officer in a tight-fitting 
uniform, this arrogant German? Could it be that 
she had in front of her the tender husband of 
former times, the father of Hermann? . . . She 
questioned herself with horror, and at the same time 
she made certain that it was indeed the same man, 
and that he had ever been thus, without, until then, 
her having suspected it! What! — in a second she 
was carried a thousand leagues from him, a world 
separated them ? . . . She did not reflect that, with- 
out her noticing she had been four months on the 
road which led her away from him, — four months 
of mourning and defeat. . . . Stupefied, she saw 
her change of view. A veil had been torn aside, 
and she perceived with horror that they had at one 
and the same time everything and nothing in com- 
mon, that they were beings of another mentality, 
another blood, another race. . . . She was France, 
— humiliated, torn and bleeding. ... He was 
heavy, arrogant Prussia! 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 247 


Then, from the bottom of her soul, she hated 
him, suffering horribly in doing so. She also bore 
him ill-will, through one of those natural injustices 
of the heart, because she alone — the bruised and 
vanquished one — suffered, whilst he, without un- 
derstanding, looked on, with his happy, irresponsi- 
ble optimism. 

A few days passed, — dark days, notwithstanding 
the pallid splendour of the snow. Winter had come 
in earnest, — the severe winter of the North. Ami- 
ens had put on its customary dress. A low, grey 
sky weighed down on the violet, storm-coloured 
roofs. The town was enveloped in fog. The hard 
ground rang with the incessant rumbling of hun- 
dreds of military vehicles. A multitude of waggons 
were drawn up on the Boulevard de l’Est. The 
streets were covered with glazed frost. For two 
days, under the windows of the Boulevard du Mail 
all the horses of the town — fat, thin, mettlesome, 
lame, a veritable procession of emaciated horse- 
flesh — filed past on their way to the Place Longue- 
ville, where the Prussian veterinaries and officers 
passed them in review. People lived in a state of 
perpetual expectation but of what they knew not. 
Singular rumours were afloat. Napoleon III was 
reported to be dead. Some said he had succumbed 
to a hemorrhage; others that he had committed 
suicide by taking poison! . . . Movements of 
troops added to the agitation. The 4th and the 
44th Pomeranians set out but returned with arms 


248 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


and baggage. A cannon shot was fired at the 
citadel. Was it a signal? People whispered that 
Faidherbe’s army, reorganised, had taken to the 
field again. Every one was seized with nervous- 
ness. 

As her strength returned, Marthe felt her detach- 
ment, as regards Otto, increase. Her first feeling 
of aversion had lasted only until she had begun to 
reason. She saw that no one was guilty in this 
matter; that there were but victims. She felt that 
she must control her nerves; no tangible disagree- 
ment, no irreparable scene had taken place. . . . 
They still loved each other. . . . They could, they 
ought to continue to love each other! . . . More- 
over, was not Hermann there, a narrow bond of 
union between their lives? . . . But the more she 
strove to bring about an accord, the more motives 
for discord did she find. Disagreement arose 
through the most futile causes, — a word, a look, a 
moment of silence. The war was between them. 
Thus, on the 13th, — when they heard the details of 
the Orleans rout, the 77 guns captured, the four 
armed steam-engines, the 10,000 prisoners, — the 
prospect of having to spend a whole evening to- 
gether was so painful to Otto and Marthe that they 
separated after half an hour. Yet they had said 
nothing, save commonplace phrases. M. Ellange 
followed the conflict with a keen eye. He would 
have done nothing to provoke it, but he rejoiced 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 249 


that it had arisen. One of his most poignant re- 
grets, among all those which tormented him, was 
the fact that he had not more formally opposed his 
daughter’s marriage. To think that he had fore- 
seen all this! But his foresight brought him no 
consolation. Marthe was indissolubly bound to her 
misfortune! ... As to Mme. Ellange, all her at- 
tention was centred on Louis, who was getting 
worse. 

On the 14th Dr. Nichamy decided that a consulta- 
tion was necessary. He would have liked to have 
called in his colleague of the Hotel Dieu, Doyelles, 
but this celebrated surgeon had had to take to his 
bed the week before. . . . Otto, returning from the 
hospital, met his father-in-law and Dr. Nichamy at 
the very moment they were descending the stair- 
case discussing what doctor they had better choose. 
Nichamy courteously replied to Otto’s salutation, 
and turning round, said : 

“ But has M. Rudheimer seen Louis ? ” 

“ Not for some days.” 

“ He might give us his opinion.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

Dr. Nichamy retained, from the conversations 
which he had had with Otto during his previous 
visits, a high consideration for the knowledge and 
skill of the Privatdocent. Why not ask his advice? 
No one was better qualified to give it. . . . Thus 
thought the good, simple-hearted doctor, who could 


250 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


not for the life of him understand why M. Ellange 
gave him a furious nudge with his elbow as they 
were remounting the stairs. 

Otto, after having amicably approached Louis, 
dexterously unrolled the bandage from his brother- 
in-law’s arm. The terrible wound was revealed. 
Mortification was gaining ground, the arm was red 
up to the arm-pit and swelled out with hard ganglia. 

“Well?” asked Mme. Ellange, trembling as she 
saw Otto make a wry face. 

“ The bistoury will have to be used there, imme- 
diately.” 

“ Exactly what I think,” said Nichamy. “ I’ll go 
and fetch Lortal. I hope I shall find him at home.” 

Otto shook his head. 

“ Time presses. I can operate, if you are will- 
ing.” 

M. Ellange, embarrassed, turned away his eyes. 
Louis, at once touched and indignant, hesitated. 
But there was such an air of authority and good 
nature in Otto’s attitude that the mother supplicated 
her son to accept. 

Louis gave way, with shame. Without appear- 
ing to notice anything, Otto had drawn from his 
pocket the little flat box in which he always carried 
his instruments, and asked for water, iodoform, lint 
and bandages. Then, looking at Louis in an amica- 
ble manner, he said : 

“ I’m going to hurt you. But you will be brave. 
Perhaps we shall be able to avoid amputation.” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 251 


With clenched teeth and without a cry, Louis 
supported the painful operation. Otto cut away 
the flesh, scraped the bone. . . . Nichamy, with an 
apron over his big stomach, acted as assistant. 
Mme. Ellange had had to leave the room. The 
father looked out of the window, silently suffering. 
When the operation was over and Otto had put in 
the last pin on the bandaged arm, Louis gave him 
a long look of thanks. . . . 

“ Voila! we shall see to-morrow.” 

And without another word Otto discreetly left 
the room. The next day the fever had diminished, 
the mortification appeared to be stationary, and the 
arm-pit was less swollen. 

“ Your husband has been admirable,” said Mme. 
Ellange to Marthe in the evening. 

She had not seen Otto the whole day. An in- 
terminable rain had washed the windows, softened 
the air. Marthe, with mind relaxed, gave herself 
up to the melancholy of the long grey hours. She 
had got up for the first time and remained on her 
feet for part of the afternoon. Exceedingly tired, 
she thought of her husband with less rancour, was 
grateful to him for the affectionate simplicity with 
which he had just acted; she found him again and 
at the same time once more became herself. Be- 
fore dinner M. Ellange came in very much excited. 
Strange rumours were afloat. Ham had been re- 
taken from the Prussians by Faidherbe’s army, 
which was approaching. His forces were said to 


252 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


be considerable. The Prussians displayed restless- 
ness. The officers had held a council of war at the 
Place Longueville. One hundred and sixteen req- 
uisition waggons, loaded with food and ammunition, 
had set off, doubtless to the assistance of Von 
Goeben or Manteuffel. . . . Did this mean deliver- 
ance ? A sudden hope filled Marthe’s heart. 

It was eleven o’clock in the evening when Otto 
returned, but only for a few minutes, he said. He 
looked anxious, alleged that his work required him 
to get away quickly, which he did after kissing his 
son several times. They learnt from his orderly 
that the entire garrison of Amiens was preparing 
to depart. Naturally the ambulance doctors would 
remain, on account of the wounded. ... As in the 
other houses of the town, the occupants of the 
house on the Boulevard du Mail slept not a wink. 
At four o’clock in the morning, for the first time 
since the occupation, the trumpet sound to saddle 
was heard. The beating of drums resounded dur- 
ing the closing hours of night. Regiments were 
crossing the town. When the dim dawn rose from 
amidst heavy clouds the entire Prussian army, — a 
brigade of infantry, two regiments of Uhlans, three 
batteries, and a company of pioneers, — was massed 
on the Place Longueville and the boulevards. M. 
Ellange could see from his windows the bristling 
lances of the Uhlans, immobile on their heavy 
horses. An inexplicable delay occurred. At ten 
o’clock the cavalry had already descended twice. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 253 


But at half-past ten a tall ungainly fellow dressed 
as a peasant was conducted to the General and 
handed him a paper. It was no sooner read than 
everybody was in the saddle. Orders flew here and 
there ; the troops were on the move. 

On seeing them at last set off and their dark mass 
move towards the Saint Fuscien road, M. Ellange 
was filled with inexpressible enthusiasm. When 
the horses of the last platoon of Uhlans had dis- 
appeared on the Boulevard Saint Charles he began 
to sing words devoid of any connection, and, rush- 
ing to Marthe and Louis, who were talking through 
their open door, exclaimed : 

“ They’ve gone ! They’ve gone ! ” 

People heard at noon that the citadel was still 
occupied. But so great was their relief to see the 
town free, so great was their hope that the coolest 
headed were seized with frenzy. With Faidherbe’s 
army victory approached. Marthe laughed to her- 
self. The black-winged vulture flew away from 
her heart. She impatiently waited for Otto’s re- 
turn; she forgot that she had hated him; she was 
eager to embrace him with all her old affection. 

















PART IV 







X 

“ There’s no warmth in this fire!” moaned 
Marthe. 

She threw into the fireplace a few more pine- 
cones, which immediately cracked and blazed up. 
Flames suddenly sprang from the blackened, smok- 
ing wood. All three stretched forth their numbed 
hands towards the dancing light. M. and Mme. 
Ellange’s sad faces were illuminated by the red 
reflection. Bent over the fire the father and mother 
gazed fixedly into the flames and thought of their 
troubles. 

“ Marthon!” 

The call came from the bed, in a broken, distant 
voice. 

“ Turn up the lamp, will you, Marthon?” asked 
Louis. “ It is going out.” 

But for the fire, whose flickering light was pro- 
jected on to the ceiling and walls, the room would 
have been almost in darkness. The tall colza-oil 
lamp, standing on the bedside table, threw but a 
pale yellow circle of light around it. It was just 
sufficient to show the forlorn face of the invalid, 
whose impressive pallor formed a striking contrast 
257 


258 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


on the white pillow-case. On turning the key, 
Marthe lowered her eyes. She could no longer 
look without anguish upon those features which 
spoke of the sorrow of henceforth living mutilated, 
— neither upon the left arm stretched out on the 
sheets, nor, around the disarticulated shoulder, upon 
the bandaged stump. Four days before, on Decem- 
ber 28th, the surgeon Doyelles, assisted by Dr. 
Nichamy, had amputated Louis’ right arm. Otto’s 
intervention had come too late and brought but a 
passing amelioration; the mortification had contin- 
ued, and the terrible operation had, at last, to be 
performed. 

Again did silence fall upon the little company, 
like a shroud. Each thought of his or her wretch- 
edness. Never had they felt it so much as on that 
evening of January 1st, 1871. Once more, in im- 
agination, they trod the bloody path which they 
had followed in the past year, — called to mind 
those six stormy months which had wrecked every- 
thing. Once more they emptied the bitter cup to 
the very dregs. And before them lay the black 
future, with its fresh ruins. One by one Marthe 
cast the resinous pine-cones into the fireplace. She 
had collected them under the pine-trees of Pont- 
Noyelles during the last fine days of the year. . . . 
Poor Pont-Noyelles, riddled with bullets, burnt 
down, only last week ! The barn, where they stored 
the hay, and where, when a little girl, she had slept, 
with her hair full of stalks, on the sweet-scented 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 259 


fodder, consisted of nothing but crumbling walls 
and a broken-in roof. . . . The entire house, with 
the exception of the left wing, where the library 
was situated, had been destroyed. Alas! Where- 
ever her thoughts strayed they were buffeted and 
tom in pieces! 

The three of them had hastily dined in the mourn- 
ful dining-room. Their eyes had sought for the 
absent ones, had counted the empty places around 
the huge table. Frida, Jacques, the Major had 
departed! . . . Louis was upstairs consumed with 
sorrow. . . . Otto, finally, was absent, but M. and 
Mme. Ellange were only too glad of that. . . . He 
was feasting at the Hotel de Ville with the doctors 
of the corps of occupation and the various heads 
of departments. . t . Whilst hurrying through the 
meal, Marthe called to mind the protracted banquets 
of preceding years, those two “ Firsts of January ” 
spent with Herr and Frau Rudheimer, Otto and 
Frida in the warm little dining-room of the Burger- 
strasse, at Marburg. The China stove softly 
roared. In the centre of the table, the mandarin 
oranges and the chocolates, wrapped in silver and 
tissue-paper, hung from the branches of the Christ- 
mas tree, which bristled with candles, like an ever- 
green thorn. Bottles of Johannisberg stretched out 
their slender necks under a venerable layer of dust. 
From time to time she took hold of Otto's hand 
and retained it. . . . Who would have predicted 
such a morrow as this? . . . She questioned her- 


260 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


self. She could not say whether she preferred that 
her husband was far from her that evening, or 
whether she would have liked him to have been 
there, all the same. . . . She sighed; — she was 
better without him. Was not that logical? She 
there, with her own people, her real, only family, 
those of her race! ... He outside, with his own 
people, the Germans, his real, only family, those of 
his race ! . . . Loyally she had endeavoured to love 
him since his return, if not with the entire open- 
heartedness of former days at least with that grave 
tenderness which could still subsist in hearts and 
souls of their stamp. She had made allowance for 
the war. She had sacrificed the half of herself, — 
her susceptibilities, tastes and affections, which had 
been cut off, living, as with a hatchet. The mother 
who was born in her had assisted in the renunciation 
of her ideas as a mere woman ; she came to see that, 
in the place of joys, there were duties in life. . . . 
At one time even she had thought that their ex- 
istence together would still be possible, would re- 
flower like one of those plants which, after being 
partly cut down, come to life again. . . . That was 
the time when she had seen Amiens delivered from 
the enemy, the streets rid of soldiers with pointed 
helmets, and when people had hoped that Faidherbe, 
with his reorganised army, would sweep Manteuffel 
before him. . . . The aspect of the struggle was 
changing. . . . Paris, freed from the North, was 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 261 


breaking through the besieging forces. . . . Both 
Marthe and Louis believed that victory had re- 
turned, that France was saved. . . . 

Days of enthusiasm! Amiens, in a state of 
feverish excitement, shook off its torpor. The 
shops reopened. The squares were black with 
groups of gesticulating people. They related that 
Von Goeben was about to be surrounded by French 
troops, which would afterwards easily get the better 
of the citadel. They were advancing along the 
road from Abbeville, Albert and Roye. Bodies of 
mobiles 1 occupied Largeau. They had been seen 
and spoken to. And people scoffed at Hubert, the 
commander of the little Prussian garrison, who had 
posted up a notice threatening to bombard the town 
at the first movement on the part of the inhabitants 
or on the first appearance of the French. In the 
excitement, some one had even fired from the Fau- 
bourg de Noyons on a Prussian patrol. Hubert 
demanded that the author of the outrage should be 
handed over to him, in addition to a fine of 20,000 
francs, otherwise he would open fire. The indig- 
nant crowd murmured. Should he be so foolish as 
to carry out his threat, there could be no doubt that 
Faidherbe would, put the entire garrison and the 
wounded to the sword ! . . . Exasperated workmen 
were already talking about massacring the latter. 

1 Mobolized soldiers. — Translator. 


262 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Dr. Nichamy, on an order from the Mayor, had had 
big strips of paper bearing the words “ Honneur 
d’ Amiens! Respect aux blesses! ” hastily pasted on 
the walls of all the ambulances, on the railings of 
the Musee and the Library. On the Friday and 
Saturday Otto had had to remain at the hospital, in 
such sort that Marthe, getting anxious, decided on 
the evening of the latter day to have the horse put 
into the barouche and to fetch him from the Rue 
des Rabuissons. She felt that she could not employ 
her first going out better. . . . When she saw him 
in the curator’s room, which he had turned into an 
office, a burst of tenderness urged her towards him. 
He had so harassed, so solitary an air that she pitied 
him. He, in his turn, was experiencing the anguish 
of defeat, the uncertainty of fortune. . . . The 
roles were reversed. Victorious, she no longer bore 
him ill-will. She became indulgent, saw Otto in an- 
other light. Although he affected a somewhat 
mocking serenity, Marthe could detect his anxiety at 
being isolated with his six hundred wounded, at 
the mercy of a hostile population. . . . She became 
quite naturally tender, almost coaxing. . . . She 
had not been able to persuade him to come to dine 
and sleep at the Boulevard du Mail, so, taking off 
her hat and cloak, she had kept him company for 
more than an hour. Together they had partaken of 
a collation, on a corner of his desk, cleared of his 
papers. . . . The future had a brighter look. She 
had imagined the invaders driven back to the fron- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 263 


tiers. Who could know, — perhaps, after so many 
trials, they would succeed in finding a little calm 
again, they would still be able to live side by side, 
not without a melancholy sweetness ? 

She rose to her feet, shivering. 

“We are positively freezing!” 

Mme. Ellange consulted the thermometer, to find, 
however, that it registered 16 degrees Cent . 1 Al- 
though the hot-air stove was kept going at full tilt, 
it could not raise the temperature higher. The 
cold entered through the frozen window-panes, un- 
derneath the doors, through the damp, chilly walls. 
A thick layer of crackling snow lay, like a shroud, 
on the roofs and footpaths of the town. 

“ It is not astonishing,” said M. Ellange. “ The 
thermometer registered eight degrees below zero 2 
this morning.” 

Marthe returned with a shawl over her shoulders. 

“We cannot complain, father, when we think of 
all the poor folk who have no fire.” 

“ And of our soldiers, Marthe ! ” murmured 
Louis, “ — the soldiers of Chanzy, Bourbaki, Ducrot 
and Faidherbe. . . .” 

The armies in distress, with their thousands of 
pale phantoms, rose up before them. Scattered 
over France, the ragged regiments passed before 
their eyes, dragging their bleeding feet through the 
muddy snow or over the stony ground. Thousands 

1 6i° Fahr. 2 i8°Fahr. 


264 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


lay prostrate around camp-fires. . . . They could 
hear their whistling respiration, the coughing of hol- 
low chests. Bitterly, Marthe sat down again. 
How short her illusion had been ! — how quickly the 
flag-stone had once more descended upon her! A 
few hours’ enthusiasm and then the shells began to 
fall again. The Prussians of the citadel had said : 
“ We’re here ! ” From the top of the belfry all the 
roads were seen to be guarded by Uhlans. On 
Sunday afternoon they arrived, passing along the 
boulevard at a gallop, with their lances at rest ; they 
were bringing back Prefect Sultzer to the Prefec- 
ture. At three o’clock the 3 rd brigade of infantry, 
a regiment of cavalry and two batteries re-entered 
the town, preceded by a band. . . . The thing was 
done. The yoke had fallen upon their shoulders 
more heavily than ever, destroying all hope. Ami- 
ens saw its horizon contract, the day decline. 
Shops were closed and streets deserted. One mo- 
ment more people had longed, waiting for the im- 
minent battle. On Monday and Tuesday there had 
poured into the town heavy battalions dressed in 
Prussian blue, hussars with fur caps and light-col- 
oured pelisses, iron-grey pioneers, gendarmes in 
green tunics and artillerymen dragging sinister- 
looking cannon over the paving-stones. Their 
yawning muzzles were arranged in rows in front of 
the bishop’s palace. Pontonniers had filed past 
with their equipages. Innumerable horsemen and 
foot-soldiers continued to arrive from the South, — 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 265 


a ceaseless flow, coming in in regular waves and 
with the powerful roar of a human tide. The 
whole of the 8th corps was there. In the evening 
the Ellanges had had to lodge ten fusileers of the 
40th Hohenzollern. Otto had had to come down- 
stairs to get them to moderate their noise. On the 
Wednesday, in accordance with the German custom 
when on the eve of a great fight, they had held a 
solemn service, which the army attended, not only 
at the Church of Saint Remy, set apart since the 
occupation for the Protestant cult, but at the Cathe- 
dral and in all the churches of Amiens. 

During those hours, which had been so painful 
that Marthe shuddered when she thought of them, 
she had come to see that her destiny and that of 
Otto had become irremediably disunited. Their 
love, after this hesitating flight, this last start, 
merely fluttered alone with broken wings. Otto’s 
attitude became modified. Hurt, slighted, he re- 
garded her with a persistent reproach, felt the bitter- 
ness of seeing her irresistibly move away. He did 
not complain, but he suffered, accusing her of incon- 
stancy, when events alone, in changing, had changed 
her. Each day the distance between them grew 
greater. 

At the end of the week, — Marthe would ever 
remember the day, the 23rd, for Louis had been 
operated upon in the morning, — the canuon, for 
the sound of which they had listened hour after 
hour, at last began to thunder. The battle had be- 


266 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


gun all along the line of the Hallue, from Dauors 
to Bavelincourt. A pale sun shone in the icy air. 
M. Ellange had watched the whole afternoon on 
the tower of the Cathedral. . . . The drama was 
enacted, with its invisible vicissitudes, on the grey 
horizon. Little clouds of white smoke above the 
dark line of the woods of Parmont indicated bat- 
teries in action. In reply to the sharp report of 
the Prussian cannon came the dull thunder of the 
naval guns; their detonations covered the continu- 
ous crackling of the musketry, which was now low, 
now distinct, recommencing in this place when it 
ceased in that. But at Pont-Noyelles it never 
ceased to rage. M. Ellange, with his eyes filled 
with tears, evoked the old residence, broken open, 
the rooms sacked, the garden ploughed up. Eve- 
ning had already come but he could not make up his 
mind to leave his observatory. Just as he was go- 
ing to descend, firing had suddenly and furiously 
recommenced from one end of the valley to the 
other. Fires broke out here and there; villages 
blazed in the darkness of the night. In the centre, 
Pont-Noyelles was burning. . . . That red blaze, 
thought M. Ellange, was their own homestead, it 
was the barn and the house, the family heritage 
disappearing in the midst of flames and smoke. A 
few days later they heard with what firmness Faid- 
herbe’s young troops held their ground. If, about 
four o’clock, the Prussians had ended in becoming 
masters of the villages on the banks of the river, 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 267 


nowhere had they succeeded in setting their feet 
on the heights above the Hallue, and, in the eve- 
ning, they had had to submit to so vigorous an at- 
tack that the Bessol, Derroja and Moulac divisions 
had momentarily entered all the places which they 
had had to abandon; driven back once more, they 
had not given up Pont-Noyelles without a fierce 
fight and had, at least, retained Bavelincourt. 
They had camped on their positions, after a strug- 
gle so hard that on the following day Manteuffel, 
giving up the idea of attacking them in front, be- 
gan a turning movement. But Faidherbe, having 
proved his strength, had preferred to give up the 
fight. The rigorous night — there were 8 degrees 1 
of frost and the men were without fires, without 
any other food than frozen bread — had been more 
redoubtable to his recruits than the day’s murderous 
fight. Masking his retreat by a few volleys of 
shells and a movement of sharp-shooters, he had 
fallen back, in good order, in the direction of Arras. 

. . . Doubtless he would soon reappear. 

Ah! that icy-cold night, when, whilst Louis was 
moaning in a feverish nightmare, they had heard 
the ceaseless rumbling of the carts which had set 
out in the morning, all the carts of the town, and 
which, in slow processions, returned with their loads 
of wounded! . . . Marthe had heard every hour 
strike, her mind filled with visions. There was 
Otto, in the large room of the Musee, struggling in 

1 Centigrade — i. e., i8° Fahr. 


268 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the midst of the lamentations of a bleeding crowd. 

. . . Another crowd, already stiff and with wide- 
open, glassy eyes, staring out into the darkness, she 
saw stretched among the hard ridges of snow. . . . 
She saw, also, the dry plum-trees, the old greengage 
plum-trees of Pont-Noyelles, with their branches 
shattered by bullets. 

The next day and the day after regiments had 
poured into the town in a serried stream. Some 
of them had come, people said, even from Paris and 
Rouen. They filed past with an air of robustness 
and the heavy self-control of veterans. It was in 
vain that people shut themselves in so as not to see 
the swarms of pointed helmets, the cavalry flowing 
in like a stream, with the clatter of iron on the 
paving-stones, and the long procession of convoys. 

. . . The voices of Rhenish soldiers on the march 
rose from the boulevard in serious and joyous 
gusts. They passed along singing their hymns, and 
one after the other, through the closed window, 
Marthe distinguished words of old airs — Heil dir 
im Siegerkrantz! or else the canticle so many times 
sung at Marburg by her father-in-law : Ein feste 
Burg ist unser Gott! . . . she began to hate this 
God who was not her own. A few hours before 
a lamentable column had passed over the same spot. 
Their hearts had been torn by the contrast. \ 
thousand French prisoners, dropping with fatigue 
and with rage depicted on their faces, dragged 
themselves along between a few mounted guards, 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 269 


with uplifted carbines. With pallid faces, clothes 
in rags and pierced shoes, light infantry-men, 
sailors, soldiers of the line, mobiles and peasants 
tramped along without a word and without a cry. 
Two officers were stretched in a carriage. What 
a desire came over Marthe to relieve the wretched- 
ness of this human herd, ravaged by hunger and 
cold, and which was going to tramp along inter- 
minable roads towards distant fortresses! . . . She 
recollected how in December came the news of lost 
battles: in the West, Josnes, Villorceau, Tavers, 
where Chanzy, notwithstanding his heroism, had 
been unable to hold his ground, the retreat to Ven- 
dome, then, after the Freteval fight, the retreat to 
Le Mans, — ever retreat, in the midst of mud, 
drizzle and snow. ... At Paris, there had been 
the second check at Bourget, the immense good will 
of the city crushed once more, and, since the 27 th, 
the bombardment, amidst the acclamation of Ger- 
many, which scented the moment for devouring the 
quarry. ... A hope still remained, a very vague 
one, — Bourbaki. . . . He was manoeuvring in the 
East with a new army. . . . Yes, a dismal end, and 
the new year had opened still more mournfully! 

Marthe gave a start. Her father had suddenly 
risen to his feet. 

“ It is bad to be dull in this way. We should 
become mad in the end if we always lived with our 
thoughts! . . . Take Montaigne, Marthe, and read 


no THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


to us aloud, as you have done on other evenings.” 

For some days past they had sought in this way 
to escape from their sorrow. 

“ It won’t fatigue Louis ? ” Mme. Ellange asked. 

“ No ! no ! ” exclaimed the invalid. “ Read, 
Marthon. In that way I may be able to sleep . . . 
to sleep without dreaming.” 

Sleep! Every one of them desired its com- 
forting quiet, the benefit of that annihilation into 
which, sometimes, by dint of being tired, they 
rolled and found forgetfulness. 

M. Ellange took from the mantelpiece the old 
volume with its clear-cut characters, and whose 
tree-calf binding, gilded and tooled, opened so well. 
Not long since, — in days of yore! — he had 
caressed its shining patina, that mysterious life 
which the past adds to inanimate things. . . . Little 
pleasures, long since dead! . . . He who loved so 
much to read ! . . . But hardly had the page been 
begun than the phrases were lost in an indistinct 
murmur. His mind had set off again for the land 
of reality. Marthe however continued: 

“ * And then we others stupidly fear a sort of 
death, when we have already passed and will pass 
so many others. For not only, as Heraclitus says, 
the death of fire generates air and the death of air 
generates water. But still more clearly can we see 
in ourselves. The flower of age dies and passes 
when old age comes, and youth ends with manhood, 
childhood with youth, and the first age dies with 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 271 

infancy. Yesterday dies to-day and to-day dies to- 
morrow. Nothing is ever durable/ ” 

She put down the book on her knees. M. El- 
lange with bent head, was buried in thought. Her 
mother, standing near the bed, was turning down 
the wick of the lamp so that less light should fall 
on Louis. He had closed his eyes in sleep and was 
breathing more evenly. . . . Marthe meditated over 
the wisdom of Heraclitus and Montaigne, that per- 
petual death of feelings, beings and things of which 
existence is made up. . . . She repeated the words 
“ Nothing is ever durable ! ” Thus she felt that 
there was some excuse for her having changed. 
She had obeyed a law of nature. . . . She sought 
for herself and could find herself no more. Where 
was the Marthe who existed before the war? Yet, 
would this rapid, complete separation of her being 
of yesterday from her being of to-day have been 
accomplished in this manner if the cataclysm had 
not overturned everything? . . . Loyal and tender, 
she had first of all felt regret, then remorse at de- 
taching herself invincibly. . . . She was too just 
not to continue to render homage to Otto’s qual- 
ities, his great intelligence, his somewhat rough 
kindness. . . . But this conclusion was an addi- 
tional cause of suffering. Nothing, henceforth, 
would efface their deep, irreparable misunderstand- 
ing. They were proved to be different in every- 
thing, from that fagon d'etre which is connected 
with one’s way of feeling and thinking, with the 


272 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


formation of one’s character, with the influence of 
education and one’s surroundings, with the dis- 
tinctive mark, in a word, of a society and a race, 
to that individual essence which forms the founda- 
tion of one’s soul and flesh. The moral personality 
of her husband, as it appeared at present, in the 
brutal light of events, shocked her, wounded her in 
the tenderest spot of her sensibility; and even his 
physical part, to the familiarity of which she had, 
however, again become accustomed, though more 
through habit than through a revival of her former 
feelings, was beginning to be repugnant. . . . 

She picked up the book which had slipped to the 
floor and opened it at hazard. . . . She marvelled. 
The lines which caught her eyes responded so well 
to her besetting thought. . . . Their son! What 
hereditary characteristics lay dormant within him, 
which blood would prevail? She read and reread, 
pondering over the words : “ What monster is 

this, — this drop of sperm from which we are pro- 
duced, which carries within it the impressions not 
merely of our bodily form but the thoughts and in- 
clinations of our fathers? Where does this drop 
of water store this infinite number of forms? And 
how do they bear these resemblances, which are so 
temerarious and irregular in their progress that a 
grandson replies to his great-grandfather and a 
nephew to his uncle? . . .” For hours together, 
during her solitary nights and the long days when 
her husband was at the Musee, did she lean over 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 273 


the cradle, scrutinising the little forehead, modelled 
on Otto’s, where the atavic legacy slumbered. 
Would her child be a Rudheimer? That would be 
terrible! . . . Would he have the heavy instincts 
of a German, this grandson of the Ellanges, or 
would he bear, in the vivacity of his black eyes, a 
soul resembling that of his mother? Ardently she 
hoped that the paternal impress would be restricted 
to form of face and structure of body, and that a 
more generous, livelier blood would flow under the 
whiteness of his Germanic skin. . . . Was his name 
Hermann? Certainly not! It was Jean Pierre! 

. . . Thus did she passionately call him, even in 
Otto’s presence. . . . She had come to regard the 
other Christian name, which the father alone used, 
with horror. ... To the whole family the child 
was Jean Pierre. An Ellange first of all. ... By 
exercising patience and having faith, they would 
instil into this little fellow the tastes and habits of 
his country ! Was he not doubly French, a true son 
of the soil of Amiens, by virtue of his native land 
and by the misfortunes of his country? . . . 

On retiring for the night she locked her bedroom 
door. The idea that Otto, after having emptied 
innumerable tankards of beer and shouted a like 
number of “ Hoch ! hoch ! hurrahs ! ” to the glory of 
Germany, might come and embrace her was odious. 
A feeling of disgust came over her at the imaginary 
contact of his thick beard, smelling of beer and to- 
bacco. . . . She now avoided their long chats to- 


274i THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


gether, glad that his duties kept him, almost without 
cessation, at the hospital. He left at daybreak, 
always came in too late to be able to dine with her, 
and often even slept in his office on a camp bed 
which had been set up permanently there. He was 
not lacking in work. Red-cross carriages, loaded 
with wounded, were continually arriving. They 
filled at the ambulances the space which had been 
made through the departure for Prussia of the 
wounded or sick French prisoners, who had been 
despatched by train. The six hundred beds at the 
Musee were insufficient; the hospital for incurables, 
the other hospitals and the lycee being filled to over- 
flowing, they were at their wits’ end to know where 
to house the groaning batches of wounded soldiers. 
After Bapaume, Otto himself was so exhausted that 
he had to go to bed for two whole days. 

It was then that Marthe learnt some of the sur- 
prises which their life together had in store for her. 
A feeling of irritation, without a cause, possessed 
her. The mere fact of entering Otto’s room, with 
her son in her arms, of telling herself that this man 
was the master of their existences, and that some 
day she would have to follow him on to German 
territory filled her with the spirit of rebellion. She 
placed Jean Pierre upon the bed like a victim upon 
a sacrificial stone. She was tortured with jealousy 
when the little darling, raised in his father’s arms, 
chuckled with delight. “ You will be a little child 
of Marburg, a true Rudheimer!” Otto had said. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 275 


She was seized with a desire, on hearing these 
words, to snatch her son away and escape with him 
to some hidden corner, some cottage at Pont- 
Noyelles, since fire had consumed, with all the dear 
recollection of her childhood, the house of the past. 

. . . She was distracted at the idea of having, some 
day, to leave her family, to go back to live in Hesse, 
and to eternally hear the language of the conqueror 
around her. Otto detected the ardour with which 
she gloated over their son, watched for the moment 
to take him in her arms again. 

Such a feeling as this revolted him much more 
than coldness. That he should have to bear, in the 
eyes of his wife, the weight of her resentment as a 
Frenchwoman, was already sufficiently iniquitous. 
But that she should also lay claim to Hermann, as 
a thing belonging to her alone, as a private prop- 
erty, that passed all bounds. He told her so, with 
a firmness the moderation of which exasperated 
her. 

“ I should certainly never have provoked this 
scene,” she replied. “ But you drive me to it. Well, 
I intend you to know what I think, now, since you 
already regard your son as a German — nothing but 
a German! . . . Your son! He is also mine, I 
suppose ! . . . I shall give up none of my rights as 
a mother and a Frenchwoman. ... I shall take my 
part in his education.” 

A deep wrinkle appeared on Otto’s brow. There 
was a scornful ring in his voice. 


276 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ Must I remind you of what is inscribed in all 
codes? The woman takes the nationality of her 
husband. You are German, my dear Marthe; — 
don’t forget that ! ” 

She shook her head desperately. 

“ In name, perhaps.” 

“ And in fact.” 

“ Never! . . . Never have I felt myself so much 
a Frenchwoman, — a Frenchwoman in every fibre 
of my body.” 

He smiled, with a somewhat ironical courtesy. 

“ You are free to think so. Every one is master 
of his own feelings. ... A man cannot think with 
the same sentimentality as a woman.” 

“Ah! how clearly one sees, at every word, the 
abyss which now separates us! . . . You regard the 
deepest and most sacred feeling as mere sentimen- 
tality, as a thing of no importance.” 

He stretched out his hand. 

“ I am unwell and harassed with worries. Such 
a discussion as this is both painful and useless. 
This is not the time for feelings but the time for 
acts. A great historical event is being accomplished 
about us. The German fatherland is being formed. 
It is necessary and just that we should submit to 
these evils for its sake.” 

“ What does the German fatherland matter to 
me!” 

“ Marthe!” 

“ I know only one country, — France. . . . That 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 277 


France which I was able to leave without regret 
when she lived in peace, glorious. ... I thought 
then that I could live far away from her, and that 
where one was happy, there also was one’s native 
country. . . . But to-day, when my country is con- 
quered, torn and bleeding, I see my folly! ... I 
was dreaming; I have awakened. ... A French- 
woman I was, a Frenchwoman I remain . . . and 
your son also, in spite of you, will be French! ” 

“ Silence ! I don’t want to reply to you any 
more. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. 
Sorrow leads you astray. . . . Do not let us en- 
venom, by phrases which we may later regret, the 
wound we bear.” 

He pointed to Hermann, who, lying near him, 
resembled a doll. Good, he was looking in the di- 
rection of the daylight. 

“ Our child here is the future. He will be what 
you and I, by common accord, make him. . . . And 
perhaps he will console us ! ” 

She reflected, analysing the character which she 
had loved in its entirety. She felt irritated at being 
forced to recognise in it, side by side with so many 
motives for hatred, so many reasons for esteem. 
. . . But having given voice to her suffering, she 
had calmed the acutest pangs. Taking up the child 
delicately, she placed it against her breast, and, 
avoiding Otto’s limpid look, murmured : “ Per- 

haps ! ” . . . Then, without turning her head, she 
left the room. 


278 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


The most difficult days began. Winter had taken 
up its abode in the icy house. It was one of the 
severest winters that people had experienced for 
many years. They crowded around the meagre 
fires, the hot-air stove giving less and less heat. It 
was necessary to be economical with coal, which 
was running out. “ Thirty-five francs the hecto- 
litre! ” 1 moaned old Julie. The cold penetrated to 
their very souls. Louis, who had at last risen from 
his bed, but so weak that he could not walk about 
without the aid of a stick, buried himself, with 
tightly closed mouth, in an arm-chair. They cov- 
ered him up with bedclothes but he could not suc- 
ceed in keeping warm. 

“ Are you comfortable ? ” asked Mme. Ellange, 
anxiously. 

His only reply was a faint smile. His silent grief 
contrasted with Marthe’s loquacious despair. He 
appeared to be disinterested in what went on out- 
side the walls of his room, whereas she lived in a 
state of feverish watchfulness for news and passion- 
ate comments, — a quivering spectatress of the for- 
midable game which was drawing to an end, and 
echoes of which were brought by the English and 
Belgian newspapers, the German official despatches 
and the Abbeville journal. 

First of all, there had been the bombardment of 
Peronne. Under the protection of the Kummer 
division, fifty-eight large cannon had poured, dur- 
1 One hundred litres, equal to 2.75 bushels. — Translator. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 279 


ing fifty-four hours, six hundred shots an hour on 
the little town. Suddenly, profiting by the fact that 
Manteuffel’s attention was occupied with Normandy 
and that Von Goeben’s troops, charged to look after 
the North, were dispersed over an extensive front, 
Faidherbe, who was reorganising his forces along 
the Scarpe, had made his appearance and driven the 
surprised Kummer as far as Bapaume. It had been 
a bloody success without any profitable result. The 
two armies left one hundred officers and three thou- 
sand men on the field. Faidherbe, husbanding his 
feeble forces, had then disappeared, without fol- 
lowing up his attack, and Peronne, which had 
thought itself saved, saw that it would be captured 
and consequently capitulated. 

In the West, the second army of the Loire, face 
to face with Prince Frederic Charles and Mecklen- 
burg, lost the great battle of Mans, after a seven 
days’ terrible struggle. The rout resulted in the 
loss of the town, twenty thousand prisoners, eight- 
een cannon and two flags. The disbanded troops 
reached Mayenne and Laval, to which Gambetta im- 
mediately rushed. The great minister and the tena- 
cious hero of Auvours at once set to work. As on 
the Loire and the Huisne, Chanzy electrified his 
shadow of an army, slowly reorganised it for the 
last time. . . . 

In the East, Bourbaki had attempted in vain to 
raise the blockade of Belfort. Victorious at Vil- 
lersexel, he found Werder between himself and the 


280 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


town, and was shattered on the Lizaine. After 
forty-eight hours’ cannonading and attacking, the 
army of the East, with its lungs tired out, had re- 
treated in disorder to Besangon. 

Thus, on every scene of the war, the end was in 
view. The German tide submerged everything. 
Belfort and Bitche, isolated stone vessels, alone still 
held out. Everywhere else the three colours were 
lowered. 

Gradually consumed by cold, hunger and misery, 
badly equipped and badly clothed, the armies of 
the Defence, which had so quickly sprung from the 
soil at Gambetta’s ardent appeal, were one by one 
disintegrated. Powerless to break through the 
circle of fire in the centre of which Paris was ex- 
piring, they had been repelled to a distance, whilst, 
under a shower of shells, the capital, by means of 
its feverish crowd in arms, had stoically withstood 
the siege. Parisians were eating black bread, con- 
sumptively coughing as they stood in queue outside 
the butchers’ shops, enraged with hope and useless 
bravery. In the letters brought by balloons, the 
great city uttered in vain its frenzied appeal to the 
tired provinces, expressed its wish to conquer or die. 
A feeling of lassitude, the consciousness that they 
were struggling to no purpose, disgust at the shed- 
ding of so much blood, at so many misfortunes, at 
so many ruins was everywhere on the increase. 

“ Armies cannot be improvised,” said M. Ellange 
to Louis one evening when his son had been praising 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 281 


the immense effort made by the young Republic. 
“ We’ve done enough now. Honour is more than 
safe. . . . I’m inclined to ask myself whether the 
men of the 4th of September are not merely trying 
to prolong their government by prolonging the 
war.” 

“ Father, recollect Spain,” replied Louis. “ The 
will of a people sufficed to get the better of the con- 
queror of nations. Armies did not conquer Na- 
poleon — the real one ! — but a handful of partisans, 
peasants. . . . The Germans are as fatigued, dis- 
gusted and decimated as ourselves. . . . Look at 
the recruits of which the regiments we see passing 
are full ! . . . Ask Otto’s orderly. They all aspire 
to return home. Life is also hard where he lives, 
in Silesia; bread has doubled in price there. ... If 
we would only continue. . . .” 

He cast a bitter look at the stump of his ampu- 
tated arm. 

“ If only those who could, would continue!” 

M. Ellange made a sceptical gesture. 

“ The French peasant is not the Spanish one. 
Jacques Bonhomme wants peace to enable him to* 
cultivate his land, on which he lives.” 

“ And the politicians of France also want peace, — 
that peace which will enable them — each fallen 
regime hopes so — to recover from the blow. But 
mark my words, father, if the nation recovers it 
will do so thanks to those men of the 4th of Sep- 
tember.” 


282 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ Why?" 

“ Because they have not lost all hope in her." 

“ Bravo, Louis ! " 

It was Dr. Nichamy who spoke, as he pushed 
open the dining-room door. Between a meeting 
of the ambulance committee and a visit to St. 
Charles’ Hospital, he had come to see how his pa- 
tient was progressing. A liberal Republican of 
long standing, the stout doctor was rather fond of 
poking fun at his friend, in whom he still saw the 
Imperial Procurator. But his good humour was 
only on the surface. Hardly had he sat down than 
he put himself in unison, pondered over the news of 
the afternoon and their eternal sorrow. However 
accustomed they might be to disasters, the last one 
surpassed them all. 

“ What ! " he cried. “ Don’t you know ? . . . 
I should have thought that M. Rudheimer. . . . 
Why, of course not, this is not the time for him to 
leave the hospital. Five hundred wounded Prus- 
sians have been announced for to-morrow." 

“ There’ll never be too many," exclaimed Louis, 
savagely. 

“ And two thousand French prisoners. ... It is 
reported that Faidherbe has just been crushed at 
Saint-Quentin, where he was attempting a diversion, 
with the object of raising the blockade of Paris. 
... He is said to have been driven back on Lille, 
with what remains of our poor army of the North! 
. . . That’s the final blow ! " 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 283 


On the following day, January 23rd, Otto came 
in after luncheon to embrace his son, and brought 
Marthe a confirmation of the extent of the defeat. 
Von Goeben had taken 12,000 prisoners and six 
cannon. The army of the North no longer existed. 
That of Paris, attempting a final sortie on the same 
day, had not been able to get beyond Buzenval, and, 
driven back in disorder, had gone to increase the 
powerless crowd, which famine and bombardment 
would soon overthrow. As to the army of the East, 
taken between Werder and Manteuffel — 

“ Manteuffel ? ” she said. “ Why, not very long 
ago, he was seen walking about on the Boulevard 
du Mail, smoking his cigar.” 

“ He left on the 9th, having been appointed to 
the command of the Army of the South. At this 
moment he and Werder must have got Bourbaki 
like this. . . .” He bent two of his fingers to imi- 
tate the claws of a pair of pincers. “ They have 
wedged him in at Besangon and separated him from 
France. If they don’t crush him in their vice, 
they’ll drive him to the Swiss frontier.” 

He had an air of arrogant satisfaction which 
revolted Marthe. 

“ And that is why,” she said, looking him straight 
in the face, “ you look so smiling?” 

He filled the tall China bowl of his pipe, — a sol- 
dier’s pipe bought at a Marburg tobacconist’s, in 
the Rue des Trois-Cailloux, at Whitley’s former 
mercery. The blackened enamel represented the 


284 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


face of King William. Otto tranquilly lit up and 
blew out a few whiffs. A blue spiral of smoke rose 
through the lid, shaped like a crown. Giving a big 
laugh, he pointed to the royal emblem. 

“ No, this is the reason why ! ” 

“ What you say is perhaps very witty, but I don’t 
understand.” 

“ I can see that. . . . Here, ma chere amie, read 
this. . . . Since the * tu ’ is out of fashion ! . . . 
Read And at the same time you will un- 

derstand why we have conducted this war so 
severely.” 

She cast her eyes on the issue of the Berlin news- 
paper which related, in pompous terms, the cere- 
mony celebrated on January 18th in the Galerie des 
Glaces, at the Palace of Versailles. . . . News of 
it had not yet reached Amiens. The shock was so 
great and the humiliation so painful that tears rose 
to Marthe’s eyes and suddenly burst forth, drown- 
ing the dancing lines. 

“ Well, now you understand,” said Otto, gravely. 
“ His Majesty King William of Prussia has been 
crowned Emperor of Germany. The royal crown 
has been changed into an imperial one. I shall have 
to renew my pipe. ... It also is out of fashion! ” 

Without a thought of the harm he was doing, so 
overflowing was he with enthusiasm and so great 
was his pride, Otto returned to Marthe, with a 
single dagger thrust which reached her soul, all the 
pin pricks she had inflicted on his love and self- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 285 


esteem. His delicacy as a man of spirit and his 
elevation as a man of science, all vanished in the 
enthusiasm of the patriot, intoxicated by victories 
and hardened by the terrible campaign. What did 
ruins matter, provided that the dream of a nation 
and of a century, German Unity, had at last been 
realised? They had fought fur Deutschland's Ver- 
theidigung, and the triumph surpassed all hopes. 
Whilst Marthe, drying her tears, was eagerly read- 
ing, Otto marvelled over the fabulous event. . . . 
That afternoon was an unforgettable date! They 
had celebrated divine service at an altar backed 
against the windows of the park. Surrounded by 
the flags of his guard, by generals and princes of 
his family, in the midst of the acclamations of all 
the Confederates, hereditary princes of Bavaria 
and Wiirtemberg, Grand-Dukes of Saxe- Weimar, 
Oldenburg, Baden, Coburg, princes and dukes of 
Hohenzollern, Holstein, etc., William had declared 
that he “ consented, on their demand and that of the 
free towns, to attach the imperial dignity to the 
Crown of Prussia.” Bismarck had then, in a calm 
voice, read the proclamation to the German people. 
Then, the Grand Duke of Baden having acclaimed 
William Emperor of Germany in the huge gallery, 
where emotion was at its height, a thunder of 
hurrahs had broke out, whilst the military bands 
played their hymns. 

Without a word, Marthe handed the newspaper 
back to her husband. She imagined she could hear 


286 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


the Galerie des Glaces, still full of the splendour of 
the Grand Roi, ringing with those terrible cheers. 
How well they had chosen the spot, — that Ver- 
sailles which was the witness of so many glories, 
which had so long been the image and as it were 
the incarnation of the supremacy and genius of 
France. There, more than anywhere else, the boot 
of the conqueror caused injury. On that symbol- 
ical spot it had trampled on the very body of the 
vanquished nation. 

“ You have triumphed merely through our er- 
rors,” she murmured at last. “ You have been 
strong merely because of our weakness.” 

He stared at her without tenderness and replied, 
with religious gravity: 

“If you have perished through your vices, we 
have triumphed because of our virtues. The Eter- 
nal Father alone ordained it! ” 

“Yes, unser Gott, our God!” she sneered. 
“ That is to say your God, — the God of pillage, fire 
and murder ! ” 

They stood face to face, with eyes full of hatred. 
Family, country, religion rose up between them, like 
fierce Eumenides. In the terrible disaster every- 
thing had crumbled to the ground: altars, native 
countries, — nothing remained! . . . With aston- 
ishment they contemplated the ruins. 


XI 


The next day, when accompanying from the 
Musee to the railway-station a convoy of two hun- 
dred Prussians, who, barely cured, had to make 
room for the wounded of Saint-Quentin, Otto 
reproached himself for his harshness towards 
Marthe. Certainly he could ill explain her new 
attitude, the complete detachment which she had 
manifested since her recovery. He recollected, as 
one recollects unmerited insults, the way she had re- 
coiled from his slightest tendernesses, — her shrink- 
ing from a kiss on the neck, the withdrawal of her 
hand from his. He attributed these evident signs 
of indifference, nay, worse, of repugnance, to a 
passing state of excitement. But though cruelly 
mortified in his amorous egoism, he retained confi- 
dence and tried, in the meantime, to explain from 
a moral point of view his wife’s etat d’ame. . . . 
What would he have felt himself if the contrary 
had happened, if Germany, suffering a second Jena, 
had seen her territory invaded, conquered by French 
armies ? . . . Doubtless he would have felt towards 
the victorious Marthe similar feelings to those 
which she had felt towards him ? . . . Marthe, with 
flattered pride, and feeling no suffering from the 
287 


288 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


evils of which she had been the involuntary accom- 
plice and the indirect cause, would without doubt 
have continued to love him. . . . Perhaps even, 
with her excessive sensibility, she would have ten- 
derly sympathised with and consoled him. . . . 
He felt, at this vision, a movement of instinctive 
hostility. Most certainly, in such a situation as 
that, he would have been humiliated, would have 
suffered. . . . Was it astonishing that a woman, 
with her nerves out of order, the result of the emo- 
tion of her young motherhood, should feel, more 
profoundly perhaps than he himself would have 
done, a shock which certainly would have reached 
him? . . . This thought moved him, in his sense 
of justice. For if he was firmly convinced that 
justice alone had presided over the providential 
course of events, he did not entirely blind himself 
as regards the rest. Master of the hour, he in- 
clined to kindness, which was facilitated by his 
ferociously personal but sincere affection, the recol- 
lection of recent happiness, and the touching pride 
of being a father. He made up his mind not to 
envenom the wound, to exercise the greatest care 
in touching it. It would heal up in the end ! 

Too late! . . . And even supposing he had been 
.delicacy itself in his relations with Marthe, could 
she have done anything else than come to that ex- 
tremity, the horror of which she was the first to 
bear: to cease to love the one with whom she had 
wished to make her life, with whom she had in her 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 289 


turn engendered, created life? . . . Did not a 
necessity, an interest stronger than love compel her, 
henceforth, to see that being who had been every- 
thing to her — lover, husband and father, and who 
remained in certain respects so near her heart — 
with the odious features of a German with blood- 
stained hands, the murderer of her brother and 
grandfather? . . . Were they not both of them 
victims of an inevitable destiny? Was not that the 
fault of the war? Marthe asked herself that ques- 
tion at the time when she could still think with a 
little lucid equity. But this certainty merely added 
to her hatred. Who had desired the war and 
pursued it with rapacious obstinacy ? . . . Otto had 
frankly confessed it, — Germany ! — the whole of 
Germany, clinging to its object; the Empire! 

Thus, instead of the crisis abating, everything 
increased it. During the end of January Marthe 
reached such a state of nervousness that she ear- 
nestly begged Otto not to come back to the Boule- 
vard du Mail for a few days. The mere sight of 
his uniform, the sound of his steps, and, with still 
more reason, the constraint of his presence drove 
her mad. She would have been unable, had he 
been there, to restrain her violence. She begged 
him, in the name of dignity and interest, and if 
he still loved her, to consent to her request. Shrug- 
ging his shoulders, he had done so. All the four 
Ellanges had then lived those two weeks shut in 
their bolted house like wild beasts. Dr. Nichamy 


290 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


was the only one to whom their door opened. They 
had heard, without being able to exhaust their dis- 
tress, of the final blows which crushed France — 
now but a panting corpse — to the ground. 

In the East, amidst the snow, Clinchant, succeed- 
ing Bourbaki who had attempted to commit suicide, 
had not been able to do more than guide his troops 
towards Swiss territory; — driven before Manteuf- 
fel the French soldiers had become veritable human 
herds, tramping along without shoes and without 
bread, shivering with fever and coughing! . . . 
Then Paris, whose admirable enthusiasm they had 
not known how to utilise, had come to the end of 
her resources and, falling the last of all, had thrown 
open her gates. The heart of the nation had ceased 
to beat. . . . The conditions were known later: 
Bismarck contented himself with 200 millions, plus 
the ceinture of forts and all the materiel of the 
gigantic army, with the exception of the rifles of 
the national guard which Favre and Trochu had not 
dared to disarm. . . . Twelve thousand soldiers of 
the active army were to remain organised to main- 
tain order. The remainder, 240,000 men, were to 
be prisoners within the walls, — an apparent conces- 
sion, remarked Louis, which spared the Germans 
the trouble and expense of transporting this mass 
of men to their fortresses and gaols. . . . How 
many prisoners crowded them already? Three, 
four hundred thousand perhaps. 

“ This time/’ M. Ellange had said on the evening 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 291 


on which they had heard of the conclusion of the 
armistice, “ we have emptied the cup of shame to 
the very dregs.” 

A final discomfiture remained. On sending a 
notification of the armistice to Bordeaux, Favre 
omitted to inform Gambetta that it did not come 
into force for three days, and whilst Chanzy, Gari- 
baldi and Faidherbe were everywhere laying down 
their arms, Von Goeben, Frederic Charles and 
Manteuffel were pushing ahead. In this way Ab- 
beville, half the Yonne, the Loiret, the Loir-et-Cher 
and the Indre, a part of the Morvan, the Jura and 
the Cote-d’Or became German without a shot being 
fired and went to increase the booty. This pos- 
thumous haul made Marthe tremble with anger and 
disgust. She sank into her despair as into a pool 
of black water. She lost her foothold, slipped, a 
buzzing in her ears and with a sensation of asphyxi- 
ation. 

During the whole of the first week of February 
she refused to leave her room and descend to the 
dining-room. She kept her son tightly pressed 
against her and both began to lose strength. The 
milk she gave him was poor and almost exhausted. 
They had to have recourse to pap and begin to wean 
him. ... At last, however, on the supplications of 
her mother, she consented to eat more and reappear. 
But she lived within herself, without hardly ever 
speaking or smiling. The great silence which fol- 
lowed on the incessant booming of cannon, on the 


292 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


sound of distant battles, surprised her. She suf- 
fered from this torpor, henceforth without news, 
and more perhaps than formerly, when excitedly 
waiting. She was prostrated by a feeling of im- 
mense depression, by the consciousness of irremedi- 
able defeat. She could not succeed in interesting 
herself in anything. She listened with inattentive 
ear to her father and Louis discussing the events 
of the week. . . . The delegation at Bordeaux pro- 
tested against the acts of the government of Paris. 
. . . Gambetta, surprised by the armistice as by a 
thunderbolt, was resisting already, wished to make 
sure of elections from which the continuation of 
the war might spring. . . . Anything rather than 
a degrading peace! . . . Louis approved of this. 
. . . M. Ellange, on the other hand, was indignant 
at his last decree, which excluded the high officials 
of the fallen regime from the future Assembly. 
. . . Fortunately this fou furieux, as M. Thiers 
styled him, had ended by resigning. 

“ I shall vote for peace,” M. Ellange concluded, 
energetically. “ The longer we delay, the heavier 
the conditions will be.” 

“ I shall vote for the Republican list ! ” resumed 
Louis. “ War alone can obtain for us a less cruel 
treaty. ... I cannot resign myself to seeing the 
representatives of France themselves subscribing to 
the mutilation of the fatherland ! ” 

“ Then it will be not only Alsace and Lorraine we 
shall lose. We had better give way to-day. . . . 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 29S 


Later, when we have become strong again, we will 
take our revenge.” 

“ Later ! ” murmured Louis. “ Later ! ” 

And Marthe evoked a continuation of the war, — 
a future when her son, in his turn, would go 
through his military exercises, wearing a heavy blue 
cloak and a pointed helmet. . . . She imagined 
Jean Pierre in the service of Germany, crossing the 
frontier and fighting against Louis’ son. . . . No, 
rather than this sacrilege, a thousand times rather 
let them have war now, war to the bitter end, with 
the whole country, seizing scythes and guns, 
crouched behind hedges and entrenched in the 
mountains ! . . . Let the decimated enemy be seized 
with fear and give way! . . . Let France, at last, 
wake up! 

Otto had been back for some days and made 
himself as little obtrusive as possible. However, 
anxious about the health of his son and that of 
Marthe, he would have liked her to have gone out, 
to get a change of air and strengthen herself. . . . 
But where was she to go? Pont-Noyelles was un- 
inhabitable. He proposed the south of France, the 
shores of the Lake of Geneva. . . . Why not Mar- 
burg? . . . But she shook her head, refused to 
move, at any rate for the moment. She no longer 
felt towards Otto that absurd antagonism, the inter- 
mittent violence of which became attenuated when 
she once more perceived his former character under 
his present bearing, but a sad and icy repulsion. He 


294 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


affected to be unconcerned by it, but was much more 
anxious at bottom than he showed on the surface. 
He had insisted on the resumption of their normal 
existence, at any rate in appearance. Henceforth, 
as formerly, the whole family met at the evening 
meal. Peace was about to be signed; it was time 
they became reasonable beings again! . . , Marthe 
and her parents had acquiesced, with disdainful 
coldness. A deep feeling of anger accumulated 
within him, a feeling of rage at the idea of being 
scoffed at by his little wife, who, as a woman and 
a Frenchwoman, was doubly inferior to him. He 
intended, when the right time came, to exercise all 
his rights, but until then wished to avoid any fresh 
scene, unworthy of them. But though he retarded 
the breaking of the storm, they breathed an air 
which was saturated with it. Everything became 
a pretext for coming to a complete, if not a definite 
explanation. Only the spark was needed to set fire 
to the powder magazine, and this quickly sprang 
forth. . . . The first meetings of the National As- 
sembly, which met at Bordeaux on February 21st, 
had filled the dining-room, where dinner after 
dinner had been eaten in silence, with their feverish 
echo. In the end, Otto having spoken the first 
words, conversations had begun. They had first of 
all tacked about as though in the midst of an archi- 
pelago, had passed from one phrase to another. 
Louis retained a feeling of gratitude towards the 
doctor for the simple devotion with which he had 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 295 


attended to him. M. Ellange, without revealing 
anything of his trouble, made a point of being 
courteous, as he would have done in the case of any 
other guest, in ordinary times. He recognised, 
moreover, his son-in-law’s real intellectual value. 
As to Mme. Ellange, she recovered her taste for 
household matters, returned little by little to her 
humble duties. All three habituated themselves 
again, much more easily than they would have be- 
lieved, to rubbing shoulders with Otto. Marthe 
alone retained a mournful silence. 

On the afternoon of March 3 rd they had heard 
the details of the events of the first of the month, 
the most touching day perhaps since Sedan. 
Whilst, after a solemn review held at Longchamp 
by the new Emperor, thirty thousand Germans, del- 
egated by the victorious armies, entered Paris, — 
whilst the unfurled flags of Germany were passing, 
amidst the shrill and dull music of those drums and 
fifes which had killed Marthe’s grandfather, the As- 
sembly at Bordeaux voted, with a sort of precipi- 
tous shame, the ratification of the preliminaries of 
peace. 

“ The most painful treaty in our history,” Louis 
exclaimed, indignantly ; “ and concluded in order to 
be able to pass more quickly to the question which 
occupies their thoughts, — what master to choose? 
In what sauce shall the remains — France! — be 
dressed ! ” 

“ You are carried away by political passion,” 


296 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“Come now, father. . . . They voted urgency, 
without even listening to details regarding the ceded 
territories. . . . They covered the protests of patri- 
ots with cries. ... In vain did the deputies of 
Alsace and Lorraine send forth the appeal of the 
two provinces, their cry for help! . . . The major- 
ity had made up its mind. . . . There were but one 
hundred and seven brave men to rally around Gam- 
betta and Chanzy.” 

“ There were five hundred and forty-six wise 
men. ... To continue the struggle under present 
conditions is madness . . . the country can do no 
more.” 

“ It doesn’t want to do any more, father. When 
you want to do a thing you can do it.” 

“ The will to do a thing cannot be improvised, 
my boy. ... No more than you can give a nation, 
in a day, a whole military and civic education. 
That takes a generation or two. It is to the honour 
of Gambetta, as you say, that at least he fought for 
honour. But it is not sufficient for a country and 
its armies to fight bravely and know how to die, it 
must have chiefs who know how to command and 
soldiers who know how to obey. It must possess 
endurance and cohesion. It must possess tenacious 
patience, the abnegation which accustoms men to 
be satisfied with little; it must be ready for daily, 
hourly sacrifice. . . . That is only attained by pre- 
liminary instruction, a long discipline of the heart 
and muscles! . . . That discipline the Germans 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 297 


had; you, who have seen this war, will be able to 
teach it to your sons. ,, 

“ My sons ,” said Louis sadly. . . . “ Yes, if I 
have any. Who would have anything to do with 
me, now ? ” 

Marthe was sobbing bitterly by their side. M. 
Ellange repented having spoken without reflexion. 
Alas! there was not a word which did not possess 
a double edge and surely wounded her! . . . But 
she raised her head and, wiping her eyes, said : 

“ You are right, father. It is for us to make our 
sons into true Frenchmen.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ Nothing, father.” 

She smiled with a strange air. 

“ The difficulty is not to do one’s duty, but to 
know, sometimes, what one’s real duty is. . . 

They were still full of emotion when Otto re- 
turned to the house. He went straight up to his 
room, whistling a popular Hessian air, and was long 
in coming down. For the first time since his de- 
parture, he had taken off his uniform of a Reserv- 
stabarzt, and put on a lounge suit, which he had 
left behind him in July. He was in a charming 
humour, and on sitting down to table attempted to 
restore harmony. He related anecdotes, evoked 
recollections of the journey in Italy. One might 
have imagined, but for the empty seats and the 
mourning, that nothing had happened and that Otto 
Rudheimer had once more become the privatdocent 


298 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


of former days. But joy appeared from under- 
neath his countenance, — the insolent joy of the 
happy shopkeeper. However much he might at- 
tempt to hide it, everything about him proclaimed 
his pride at peace having been concluded at so high 
a price. . . . What a magnificent stake! . . . He 
showed his feelings, in spite of himself. He felt 
their reprobation, their bitter suffering. He tried 
to justify himself, to call off the dogs. 

“ You cannot pardon us, I feel, for having re- 
taken Alsace and Lorraine. Certainly I can quite 
understand that it is hard for a French person to 
have to weep for the loss of these two provinces. 
. . . But you at least,” — turning towards his 
father-in-law, — “ who know history so well, would 
admit to me, if your sorrow were not so keen, that 
to us Germans the case was identical. . . . Alsace 
and Lorraine were incontestably German; you took 
them, formerly, from the German Empire by force 
or by craft. Now, the bitter feeling of injured 
rights, — the feeling of humiliated national pride 
and material loss is not yet effaced with many of 
us. Our people cling to the old principle that a 
hundred years of injustice do not create an hour of 
right. . . . Consequently, how could you expect us 
not to profit by a successful war to satisfy ever liv- 
ing aspirations and re-establish what we call our 
right? ” 

“ Allow me!” said M. Ellange. 

“Oh! I know quite well that from the French 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 299 


point of view things are presented differently. . . . 
Long possession, which gives you a title? . . . The 
little security which would exist between states in 
their political relations, if they had a desire to revive 
all the rights which have lapsed? . . . Finally, you 
would put forward as an argument the feelings of 
the populations themselves, who would belong to 
France and not to Germany? ... As regards this 
last point, I believe that these feelings are transi- 
tory, and that the fundamentally German character 
of the country will soon transform them, as soon 
as the uneasiness which every state of transition 
brings with it has vanished. I deny also that a 
part of a nation has the right to choose its path 
in conformity with its caprice. As to the affirma- 
tion that our rights had lapsed, I reply that to us 
nothing has lapsed so long as we retain the living 
feeling of having submitted to an injustice.” 

He became silent and calmly waited for the re- 
ply. It was not long in coming. 

“ You allege your right. I deny it. Formerly, 
we did, in fact, conquer Metz, and Alsace, with the 
exception of Strasburg and Mulhausen, by success- 
ful wars on the Holy Roman Germanic Empire. 
But I beg you to tell me what there is in common 
between that Empire and the one you have just 
established? Nothing! . . . The body of the Ger- 
man Empire in those days was Austria, — that 
Austria which the protestant princes of the North 
already combated, long before Sadowa! For it 


300 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


was precisely in concert with those princes that we 
accomplished our conquest. . . . They were our 
allies and used our support to extend their domin- 
ions. . . . Confess that they have acted ungra- 
ciously in reproaching us to-day with the benefits of 
common victories ... in dragging from us as il- 
legitimate possessions confirmed by the Peace of 
Westphalia, to which you owe your liberty of con- 
science and the beginning of your grandeur. There 
remains Miilhausen, which was allied to the Swiss 
Confederation and passed in 1798 to the French 
Republic by a special treaty. . . .” 

“And Strasburg?” laughed Otto, — “ Strasburg 
which Louis XIV in time of peace took by force 
and kept?” 

“ Yes, Strasburg . . admitted M. Ellange, 
“ Strasburg which was taken two hundred years ago 
from Ferdinand of Habsburg, that is to say from 
Austria again, from the very princes whom Prussia 
has violently driven from Germany! . . . Stras- 
burg which has since become so French ! No, Mon- 
sieur Rudheimer, believe me, don’t rely upon history 
as a foundation for your rights.” 

Otto changed his tactics. 

“ Our people don’t enter into these niceties. To 
them Germany is Germany, and the Empire is 
the Empire. Well-founded or not, the feeling of 
the German nation is undeniable. It believes in the 
legitimacy of its rights, — believes with entire good 
faith. The fatal consequence is precisely that, in 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 301 


such a case, each nation thinks right is on its side. 
There is nothing to be done then but to appeal to 
force, — ultima ratio regum! Your fabulist has ex- 
pressed it in a phrase : ' La raison du plus fort est 

tou jours la meilleure,’ — ‘ He who is the stronger 
has always the better of the argument/ ” 

“ So be it,” said M. Ellange. “ I appreciate 
irony. At any rate you are frank. This country 
pleases me, so I take it. ... I have need of Metz 
and Strasburg, on account of their strategic posi- 
tions, so I keep them . . . Ego nominor ieo. . . . 
This thesis is perhaps worthy of a Pomeranian 
Corporal, but I am surprised to hear it in your 
mouth, — you, Otto Rudheimer, a savant, a Hessian, 
annexed only yesterday to Prussia ! . . . One word 
more! You refuse nations the right of disposing 
of themselves, and in that respect, with your theory 
of force, you are logical. . . „ But in that case, 
don’t talk to us any more of those rights which 
nothing prescribes so long as the feeling of having 
submitted to an injustice lasts! ... We, on the 
contrary, allow the plebiscitum, we believe that a 
group of men cannot be put into an enclosure like 
cattle, that the desires of the heart and soul must 
be taken into account. By two centuries of care 
and friendship we have made Alsace and Lorraine 
French. They will remain French, at any rate in 
heart, longer perhaps than you imagine. If Prus- 
sia, if Germany (should you prefer this name, since 
they are now one and the same), think in this way, 


302 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


— they who dismembered Poland, — so be it ! . . . 
To us French people this is not a question of one 
historical right being opposed to another. It is a 
question of justice. A matter of sentiment. . . . 
I fear that we shall never come to an agreement on 
that ground. You smile? To you justice is 
strength, — your strength? . . . Well, to us justice 
is not a German privilege; it is the final word of 
human reason! That reason is better than the 
reason of force. Force changes camps. We pos- 
sessed it before you. Take care that some day we 
do not find it again, hand in hand with reason.” 

Otto continued to smile with disdainful pity. 
His strong teeth protruded, as though ready to bite, 
between his open lips. Pushing back his chair, he 
rose from the table and said : 

“ Let us see if Hermann has finished his little 
supper! . . . You will accompany me, Marthe.” 

She obeyed, suddenly very pale. Trembling, she 
had followed, with Louis, the whole of the discus- 
sion; she had contained herself with difficulty, had 
been ready to interrupt at every word, so much had 
Otto’s tyrannical pride, his hard and unconscious 
hypocrisy revolted her. Through that mouth which 
had lavished upon her so many tender words and 
kisses, the whole of Germany, malignant and cun- 
ning, had spoken. Not a trace of the old Otto ex- 
isted. Another man, with another soul, and whose 
power she detested, was before her. 

“ I didn’t think fit to reply to your father’s 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 303 


threats,” said Otto when they were alone in their 
bedroom, illuminated by the feeble flame of a night- 
light. . . . “ People have always twenty- four 
hours, in the least important case, in which to curse 
their judges; and with still more reason, in a litiga- 
tion like this, in which the divine will has been pro- 
nounced. But I suppose that he speaks merely for 
himself, and that, as a woman and a mother, at- 
tached to your duty, you do not join forces with 
him. . . . Thank God! We have come to the end 
of this hard trial. Everything ought now to be for- 
gotten. ... In a fortnight, doubtless, a part of 
the German armies will return home. ... I shall 
then leave my post. ... You will precede me to 
Marburg, with our son. And we can resume life 
as in the past, in our dear little house.” 

He drew aside the light curtain under which the 
child was peacefully sleeping, with mouth slightly 
open and little fists clenched. Having contemplated 
him for a moment in silence, his face brightened. 
In the little features he discovered an exact resem- 
blance to himself, the solid head of a genuine Rud- 
heimer. . . . Marthe’s voice surprised him in the 
midst of his revery. He turned his head, — dis- 
pleased, hostile beforehand, so gravely did she 
speak. 

“ Listen, Otto. It is time that we should come 
to an explanation as regards our mutual relations. 
. . . For three months have we been living side by 
side without daring to confess what was passing 


304 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


within us. . . . Insensibly we have become modi- 
fied, without our exterior attitudes revealing the 
profound change which has taken place within us. 

. . . This cannot last any longer. Perhaps you 
would accommodate yourself to my silence and a 
superficial submission. . . . But I cannot agree to 
the protraction of this situation. I have suffered 
too much! ... You must know me, as I have be- 
come, just as I know you now, as you are.” 

He stiffened, suddenly fearing that the misunder- 
standing was even deeper than he had thought, and 
forewarned against a rebellion which offended his 
patriotism as much as his affection. 

“ I foresaw this moment. I am listening to you.” 

“ You speak to me of my duty as a woman and 
a mother. No one, you may be certain, is more 
keenly alive than I am to the seriousness of that 
duty. Only, what exactly is this duty? We do 
not look at it from the same point of view, and 
therein lies our misunderstanding. We look at 
nothing now with the same eyes! ... I loved in 
you a person whom I had figured under certain 
features, and now I can perceive nothing of this 
person in you. I thought you were good, liberal- 
minded and upright, and I find that you are hard, 
short-sighted and even false. . . . We had com- 
mon tastes and pleasures. ... At the idea of shar- 
ing them with you in the future, I regard them with 
horror. . . . Literature and music with you would 
be torture to me. ... I cannot conceive the pos- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 305 


sibility of living under your roof . . . and my 
whole being, at the idea of sleeping in your bed, 
revolts. . . . That which united us is dead. . . . 
Oh! I can read what is in your eyes. You judge 
me to be fickle and ungrateful, — a true French- 
woman ! Alas ! no, I am the same. Only, love en- 
veloped our life, like a veil. . . . The war has torn 
it in shreds. . . . All that remains are two beings 
of a different race face to face, and between them 
everything which divides : habits, customs, feelings, 
thoughts, that slow formation which comes from 
far beyond childhood and which our parents in- 
herited from theirs, the contrast of our educations, 
the antagonism of our religions and nationalities, 
the thousand minute differences which made us 
what we were and what we are — strangers to each 
other ! ” 

Otto was touched by the sincerity and profundity 
of her confession. He recognised that she saw 
clearly, without admitting that such a reality could 
survive the hours which imposed it. It was but an 
ephemeral result. Due to momentary circumstances, 
it would vanish with them. ... He stretched his 
hand in the direction of the cradle. 

“ In my eyes,” he said, “ nothing can efface so 
quickly the recollection of the two years of happi- 
ness we have had together. If many things separate 
us, there is at least one which still unites us, and 
which will ever unite us, in spite of yourself. It is 
only the woman in you who has just confessed — « 


306 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


inconsiderately perhaps — all that the bitterness of 
such days as these has inspired. You will reflect. 
The mother ought to employ another language.” 

She shook her head. 

“ No, Otto, no! . . . For henceforth we are not 
merely strangers to each other. ... In my eyes 
you are the Enemy. You are Germany, whose 
violent and rapacious spirit I hate, — Germany 
which I execrate with all the rage of a vanquished 
woman and with all my French soul! ... I desire 
your Hermann, my little Jean Pierre to be my re- 
venge. I shall give him a taste and love for every- 
thing which you despise and I admire. ... I will 
make him, in the place of my brother Jacques, 
killed at Borny, into a soldier according to my ideas, 
a genuine Picard, a good Frenchman. I will return 
him to his Fatherland! . . . You see it is not only 
the present but the past and the future which sep- 
arates us. It is the dead. . . . And it is the life 
which sleeps there, that little life which is now all 
my own! ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” he exclaimed, sneeringly, “ I per- 
ceive that your way of regarding duty, both in your 
quality as a mother and in your quality as a wife, 
resembles as little as possible my own way of look- 
ing at things. You forget but one thing, — namely, 
that what we desire does not always agree with 
what is. Fortunately there are laws in Hesse, as in 
France, which are observed in such cases. And 
I’m not quite sure, — indeed, I very much doubt, — 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 307 


that the law allows you such great liberty. You 
must take a little into account, my dear, the author- 
ity of the husband and the father.” 

“ You would take me back against my will ? You 
would take my child away from me ? Oh ! I know 
you are capable of it! And the law would be on 
your side. ... If not the law, force! . . . Why 
no! when you are no longer intoxicated with vic- 
tory, you will understand that you cannot always 
gag and imprison a human being . . . you will 
blush at your violence.” 

“ It is not at all a question of violence. I merely 
appeal to your sense of equity. If you consider that 
you are liberated from your duties towards me, you 
will surely acknowledge that you have some towards 
your son. . . . Have not I some also? Don’t you 
consider that our duties and even our rights are at 
least equal? ... Be just, since in your family and 
in your country, you boast of being so ! ” 

His voice was embittered with rancour. There 
was no longer between them even that sympathy 
which springs from misfortune, and which had 
sometimes, in their blackest hours, drawn them to- 
gether. They were but the conqueror and the con- 
quered, Germany and France engaged in conflict. 
. . . She replied : 

“ Ah! if only you had a little of that generosity 
which is becoming to one who triumphs! ... If 
you but sympathised with me in my sorrow ! ” 

Her nervous tension had become so great that 


308 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


she was ready to break down. She bit her lips until 
the blood came, to prevent herself from bursting into 
tears. . . . Otto shrugged his shoulders. Far from 
exciting his pity, such overexcitement appeared to 
him to be absurd and out of place. Pointing to his 
son, he began to joke. 

“ I hope you don’t intend to introduce this child- 
ish nervousness into your system of education. . . . 
Men must have virile examples before their eyes. 

. . . Fortunately he will find them at the University 
of Marburg.” 

Drying her reddened eyes with her wet handker- 
chief, she retorted, defiantly: 

“ Or at the Lycee of Amiens! ” 

The Otto and the Marthe of former days, ready 
to seize each other by the throat, stared at one an- 
other for a long minute. Their looks collided like 
swords. . . . They felt, as the blood suddenly 
rushed to their brains, an innominable desire, — the 
instinct which kills. . . . Then, something which 
had still been beating within them died. ... It was 
the past; it had fled for ever. . . . And fully con- 
scious of the irreparable, they both stepped 
back. . . . 

At last Otto murmured, as though to himself : 

“ Why torture oneself beforehand? . . . We 
must give to-morrow time to come ! ” 

Once more he went to bend, between the mo- 
mentarily raised curtains over the little body re- 
posing in the cradle. . . . Henceforth all his wealth 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 309 


lay there. But years would have to go by before 
a soul awakened in that German flesh. ... It 
would be time to dispute over it then! . . . Draw- 
ing up his broad figure and with a feeling of con- 
fidence, he left the room, without a farewell. It 
was the only attitude which fitted his unrecognised 
power. 

He made no allusion on the following days to 
what had occurred. He feared to show the violence 
of his distress. A feeling of jealous sorrow tor- 
tured him; — a furious desire came over him to 
keep and possess the fleeing prey, against her will. 
The more he felt she was lost, the less he wished 
to renounce her. He was the master, they saw that 
very well. Apart from the evening meals and their 
rare meetings at Hermann’s bedside, he had no 
further relations with his wife. His work — the al- 
most continual evacuation of wounded, Germans or 
French, for Germany — absorbed the whole of his 
time. Certain signs announced the approaching de- 
parture. Caissons and cannon were being removed 
from the citadel. A quantity of salted meat, now 
useless, was put up for sale at the railway station. 
A thousand carts set off in long files for the frontier. 
People would no longer meet the carters, with their 
blue blouses, their numbered felt hats, their thick 
mufflers and their red waistcoats. 

M. Ellange and Louis had resumed a more active 
life. They saw, if not the end of the occupation — 
for months would elapse before France could pay 


310 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


her ransom of thousands of millions — at least the 
loosening of the bolts on their prison doors, the pos- 
sibility of moving about and breathing more freely. 
Louis came across some old comrades among the 
mobiles of the North who had returned from Paris. 
Disbanded after the long months of the siege, they 
came back full of narratives, and still in a state of 
feverish excitement over their agitated captivity. 
Otto vied in politeness with M. Ellange, who, satis- 
fied with having been able to unburden his heart, 
was anxious to preserve a scrupulously correct atti- 
tude until the time came for them to part. The 
approaching arrival of the Emperor Guillaume was 
announced ; he was to pass through Amiens, on his 
way back to Germany, and hold a grand review. 
By the 8th, troops began to flow into the town, whilst 
the people shut up their shops and the streets 
emptied. The place was full of soldiers. Marthe 
recollected the invasion which had preceded the bat- 
tle of Pont-Noyelles. Heavy landwehriens, with 
their trousers turned up and their waxed leather 
shakos, rubbed shoulders with hussars with trailing 
swords; their sabretaches beat against their tight- 
fitting breeches. Huge white cuirassiers slouched 
about, thrusting out their chests, bearing the gilded 
spread-eagle. The new flag of the Empire, black, 
white and red, fluttered above the buildings. On 
the ioth, people learnt that William was not coming, 
but that he would be replaced by the Hereditary 
Prince. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 811 


A spring-like mildness floated in the less severe 
air. The sun shone on the tile roofs, on to which 
the pigeons alighted, amidst a great flapping of 
wings. On the eve of the review M. Ellange sud- 
denly decided to have his horse put into the carriage. 
He would profit by the fine afternoon to go as far 
as Pont-Noyelles, and, perhaps, if it was possible, 
he would sleep there, in the out-houses that had 
remained intact. In that way he would not hear 
from all parts of the town the sound of those tri- 
umphal bands which made him shudder . . . espe- 
cially would he escape from the shrill sarcastic music 
of the fifes the recollection of which was mingled 
with that of his father. He would go to the cem- 
etery, where the masons would soon have to work, 
when they undertook the translation of the body. 
And at the same time he would see if, before Easter, 
they could repair the left wing of the house which 
had suffered the least. . . . The country would do 
them all good. . . . 

On that German fete day, when, on the road from 
Amiens to Querrieu, nearly 40,000 men, drawn up 
in line as far as the Alengons farm, cheered their 
Fritz, Marthe and Louis had taken a melancholy 
walk to the Madeleine cemetery. They had laid, 
on the already verdant tomb, where a wooden cross 
bore the name of Jean Pierre Ellange, a few 
branches of box, gathered as they passed Dr. Nich- 
amy’s garden. Piously, they had both evoked the 
other tomb, — that marked by no cross, on the road 


312 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


from Mey to Villers-rOrme. Awaiting the day 
when, aided by Lieutenant Charbalye, they could 
undertake the sad pilgrimage in search of that spot, 
they thought of those poor already half-consumed 
remains which, in their tenderness, they pictured as 
the living form of Jacques. . . . The eldest, the 
big brother, who had set out so handsome, so young, 
so confident ! . . . Never more would they see him. 
Never, perhaps, would they discover what remained 
of him, that body which no longer reposed even on 
French soil, since Borny and Metz were now Ger- 
man. 

On returning along the boulevards crowded by 
hundreds of grey transport vehicles, Marthe and 
Louis completed the drawing up of the funereal bal- 
ance-sheet. Death had struck everywhere around 
them. There was not a family which did not 
mourn, as they did for a brother, a son or a husband. 

. . . Everybody they met was dressed in mourning 
and bore trouble on his or her desolated face. 
Further on they met thin and ailing workwomen, 
with kerchiefs wrapped tightly round their shoul- 
ders, workmen with grey beards and tattered cloth- 
ing, and pitiable little bourgeois. . . . Where there 
was no mourning, there was poverty, with its pro- 
cession of disease and ruin. . . . What punishment 
had been meted out to them themselves, who were 
sheltered from need by fortune! . . . They con- 
fided in each other, took a lamentable delight in 
scrutinising together their sorrows. 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 313 


“ There are hours,” confessed Louis, “ when I 
envy those who have gone. I feel so disgusted 
with life that, but for the thought of causing 
mamma sorrow, I should kill myself. The future 
is as dark for me as the present. There is no jus- 
tice. ... I have no belief in anything. . . . And 
when I again believe in something, what shall I do ? 
. . . Nothing! I am nothing but an invalid. . . . 
Before the war I had reasons for acting, for being 
happy. . . . But now all I’m good for is to pine 
away with powerlessness and regret! ... To be 
mutilated, half dead, is perhaps still sadder than be- 
ing no more. . . . Dead, we no longer suffer.” 

She sought and found consoling words. . . . But 
with a sorrowful denial the one-armed man indi- 
cated the empty arm of his coat pinned across his 
breast. 

“ What would you have me become, now ? . . . 
You speak to me of happiness? . . . Ah! Marthe, 
if you only knew ... I never told you anything 
about it. ... You were then in Germany. . . . 
And when you returned the war began, and 
since — ” 

He shook his head. Their minds were filled with 
thoughts of the tragic whirlwind through which 
they had passed. 

“ I guess, little brother . . .” 

“ No, you don’t know her. . . . She’s the daugh- 
ter of an Abbeville manufacturer. . . . Louise . . . 
Louise Fontanes. . . . She came to pass the last 


314 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


holidays at Pont-Noyelles, with our neighbours the 
De Nerfeuils, cousins of hers. ... So pretty, so 
sweet! ... I loved her immediately. ... I was 
not distasteful to her. ... We talked together of 
the future. . . . The future! Voila -. . ." 

“ But, Louis, if she loves you . . .” 

“ No, no ! ... I don’t want to be an object of 
pity. ... I don’t want, now, to encumber her life. 
... It is finished, finished ! ” 

Marthe passed her hand tenderly under the poor 
trembling arm. Sorrow brought them very close 
together. Their eyes, which had shed so many 
tears, remained dry and they felt what a misfortune 
it was, at the height of misfortune, to be even un- 
able to weep. Among so many miseries, which, in 
overwhelming the country, had affected every one, 
the least painful were not those which they bore, 
with feelings of regret and hatred, at the bottom 
of their hearts. Of all their ills, they detested the 
cruellest, the poisoned wound of love. 


XII 


Otto was walking backwards and forwards in 
his wife’s bedroom, with a violent step and his 
clenched fists behind his back. Marthe, standing 
near the cradle, was setting him at defiance, in 
silence. . . . No, she would not follow him ! No, 
she would not leave Amiens at this moment! . . . 
Relieved, she waited. . . . What could he do? 

“So you refuse? . . . You refuse?” 

Standing in front of her, with face thrust for- 
ward and threatening eyes, he endeavoured to instil 
his will into her black look. 

On the previous day they had heard from the 
orderly that the departure, foreseen for some days 
past, would take place at the end of the week, doubt- 
less on Saturday, March 19th. The troops which 
did not form part of the corps of occupation, all the 
officers and soldiers of the landwehr would return 
to Germany. The day after the review the regi- 
ments were drawn up in echelons on the already 
dusty roads. A doctor of the active army would 
replace Otto at the head of the hospital, where a 
very small number of wounded were to remain. 

On the receipt of this news Marthe had asked 
her father for his advice. She had decided not to 
315 


316 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


return to Marburg, at least for some months. 
Without having yet determined to bring about a 
definite rupture, she could not face the possibility 
of again living side by side with her husband, espe- 
cially in a country where everything was henceforth 
more than foreign, hostile. No, after so much suf- 
fering, captivity and exile, that was beyond her 
strength! . . . Could she ever put on her chains 
again ? She avoided settling the question. But to- 
day it was simply impossible. . . . The magistrate 
had listened to her in silence. On his glabrous 
face, with its protruding cheek-bones, no sign of 
emotion revealed the father’s joy. His sunken eyes 
seemed dead. With his bony fingers he twisted one 
of his white whiskers. . . . Legally — there could 
be no doubt about that — Marthe ought to obey. 
Her husband had the right to call in the public 
force to make her return, manu militari, to the con- 
jugal domicile. The court would support his claim. 
But, in law, this procedure was long and, moreover, 
little adopted; and, in fact, M. Ellange could not 
very easily imagine Otto dragging his wife by 
the wrists or the hair. ... If she refused, it would 
bring about a separation with all its consequences: 
the child taken from her and even divorce, if Otto 
wished to have recourse to it, since the Hessian law 
allowed it. . . . All rights were on the side of the 
husband. . . . 

“ Act according to your conscience, my daugh- 
ter,” he had concluded. “If you remain, we will 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 317 


endeavour to make you very happy, and we will at- 
tempt to defend your interests and those of your 
son. . . . If you leave — ” 

A gesture had completed his thought. Marthe 
had immediately measured the abyss. No, she 
would not waste what remained of her youth and 
strength in a life in which she would have to abdi- 
cate everything. . . . No, she would not submit to 
the slow torture of becoming a German, against 
her will! No, she would not abandon the supreme 
relic, that which remained of France in the dear 
little being who was now the future! 

Put out of temper by the insulting silence, Otto 
repeated in a hollow voice : 

“You have well reflected? . . . You refuse?” 

“ I refuse.” 

“ Very well, I shall take legal steps. You shall 
return by fair means or foul.” 

“Like a stolen article, in your baggage?” 

The blood rushed to his face. He cried: 

“ Marthe!” 

She felt her injustice, but gave herself up to it 
with a wicked joy. 

“ Do you think you can dispose of a human being 
as easily as a clock ? ” 

The anger of the conqueror boiled in his veins, 
with their sluggish flow. That this Frenchwoman, 
in whom all the audacity of the crushed nation made 
its appearance, should dare — she a mere woman 
— to raise her head, should insult the whole of con- 


318 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


quering Germany, filled him with savage rage. 
For he clearly saw that she was the mistress of the 
situation, as of herself, and that he could do noth- 
ing, without making himself ridiculous and odious, 
— nothing against this fragile will, stronger than 
the law and armies! A desire to employ violence 
came over him. The feeling of his physical superi- 
ority aroused a brutal instinct and made him raise 
his heavy hand. But it immediately fell by his 
side again. What would he have gained when he 
had gripped that delicate neck and crushed those 
fragile arms? She would not even hate him the 
more! . . . And this intuition also increased his 
anger. It was finished, finished! Never would 
she love him any more! . . . He had for ever lost 
those eyes the soul of which had laughed at him, 
those lips which had melted under his own, those 
hands which had caressed his forehead during eve- 
nings of work and meditation, at Marburg, under 
the light of the lamp ! He had lost that firm, soft 
body which, before becoming the august body of a 
mother, had been that of a lover. . . . This tender 
regret tortured him, still more perhaps than her re- 
bellious spirit. . . . About to lose both body and 
soul, he felt that he could not renounce them; he 
clung to them greedily, as to a property to which 
one holds on all the tighter the more one feels it is 
slipping through one’s fingers. But he had such an 
absolute certainty that all was now lost that an over- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 319 


whelming stupor succeeded his attitude of the last 
few days and his still more recent fit of anger. 

Seeing him give way, Marthe pushed her ad- 
vantage. 

“ No. I will not leave. You have no means of 
forcing me to do so.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully. 

“ Remain then ! . . . It’s not you I want.” 

Quickly, he raised his son from the cradle. 
Tickled by Otto’s long beard, the baby smiled. 
Dimples appeared on his pretty cheeks. He waved 
his arms and crowed. 

“ This is all that matters to me,” said Otto. “ I 
shall write this evening to my mother. In a week 
she will be here to fetch Hermann.” 

“ You would take him from me? ” 

The indignant cry sprang from her motherly 
heart. Otto bowed, jeeringly. He, in turn, was 
triumphing. 

“ It rests with you whether you will separate 
yourself from him or not.” 

“You would take him from me? At the risk 
of killing both of us! For you know he needs my 
care, my milk ! ” 

“ He’s half weaned already. . . . Moreover, 
there are good nurses at Marburg.” 

He put the child back into his cradle. But, ex- 
cited by the movement, he stretched out his tiny 
hands, to be taken up again. 


320 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


“ There, there ! ” said Otto in German. “ Calm 
yourself, playful little man! ” 

He pulled up the light coverlet as far as the baby’s 
chin and tucked in the bedclothes. In the presence 
of his coldly resolute air, Marthe saw herself sup- 
pressed; Jean Pierre would be in the hands of an- 
other! . . . The father alone, sad grandparents 
would occupy themselves with him. An odious lan- 
guage would ceaselessly sound in his ears, his ten- 
derness and intelligence would expand, far from 
her, under a foreign influence and foreign habits. 
Unable to support the idea of this torture, she sud- 
denly became humble. 

“ I will not separate myself from my son. . . . 
He needs my presence for a long time yet. You 
didn’t seriously think of that.” 

“ And I also can only say : ‘ I will not separate 

myself from my son.’ ” 

A sudden emotion impelled her to say: 

“ Otto, you are the master. Be generous. Don’t 
abuse your victory, which is sufficiently com- 
plete. . . 

He had begun walking up and down the room 
again. He reflected, with bowed head. . . . She 
was giving way. She had confessed her inferi- 
ority! . . . Little by little his anger subsided. He 
did not rejoice, in his deeply wounded masculine 
self-esteem, that she consented to obey, since the 
mother alone had given way! . . . Was not their 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 321 


private life irremediably spoilt? . . . And then, 
certain now that, some day or other, she would re- 
turn to Marburg, he suddenly ceased to desire her, 
in whom he merely saw a stubbornly opposed com- 
panion. . . . He was nevertheless flattered at hav- 
ing imposed his authority and made her feel the bit. 
With less severity he said : 

“ You are ready then to conduct yourself as you 
ought ? ” 

She murmured: 

“ I will submit to anything rather than abandon 
my son.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t delude myself. . . . Hermann 
alone calls you back to the sense of reality.” 

There was a silence. Each was buried in 
thought : he less anxious, now that he had obtained 
satisfaction, to demand an immediate departure; 
she bewildered, now that she had made her sacrifice. 
. . . What, leave everything; her father who in a 
few months had become an old man, her mother, 
a sorrowful shadow, and her mutilated brother, 
Louis? Tear herself away from her dear native 
place, — the ground where she had taken root again ? 
. . . Desert the vanquished France to go and live 
a life of slavery, in the midst of humiliation and 
solitude, with the conquerors? ... In spite of the 
consolation her son would be to her, what sort of 
an existence would she have in Marburg, between 
the scornful pity and the suspicion of her parents- 


322 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


in-law and Otto’s frigid companionship? ... It 
would be like life in a convict-prison! Wringing 
her hands, she supplicated. 

“If you have still a little heart left, if you recol- 
lect having loved me, do not compel me to leave 
immediately! Give me time to recover possession 
of myself. . . . Let me get used to the idea of say- 
ing farewell to everything which surrounds me. . . . 
Have pity on my sorrow! You cannot understand 
it, because all your thoughts are at present in oppo- 
sition to mine. . . . You feel according to your 
masculine soul, — that of a German and a conqueror. 

. . . But what shall I find at Marburg ? The recol- 
lection of everything I am going to leave! . . . 
You cannot bear malice against me for now pre- 
ferring my family and my mourning country ! . . . 
Never should I have believed that such bonds could 
unite a person to the past, to the parents who created 
her, to the land which nourished and formed her. 
. . . Between you and me there is only the slight 
attachment of joy, two short years which have 
passed like a dream. ... In the case of my parents, 
there is the long communion of my childhood and 
youth! I thought for a moment that love had 
effaced all that! . . . Then France’s misfortune 
came and I found myself again. . . . Otto, people 
do not know each other, they live in a world of illu- 
sion so long as they are surrounded by happiness. 
... It is only in misfortune that they can see others 
and themselves clearly. Whilst you and your coun- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 323 


try knew only joy, alone I touched, with my country 
and parents, the depths of misfortune. It was then 
that I saw that, above everything, I loved all those 
nameless things which are expressed in a single 
word : the fatherland ! ” 

Otto looked at Marthe for a long time. At her 
involuntary tutoiement , 1 he had felt the vision of 
former days pass, like a fresh breeze, over his arid 
soul. . . . For the first time he had the feeling that 
those days were no more than a memory, — that is 
to say something distant and dead, — something 
infinitely sad. 

“ The fatherland ! ” murmured Marthe. 

There crowded before their eyes the images, with 
all their divers colours, contained in the great mys- 
terious word. The fields of France and Germany 
stretched out in the sweetness of the natal air. 
Mountains, rivers, the face of the plains, and the 
towns with their living stones sprang up ; the whole 
treasury of recollection, song and legend. ... A 
past of glory and misfortunes floated — folds of 
standards — above church spires and churchyard 
crosses. . . . Woven by rain and sun, the beautiful 
face, the confused shape of the earth became out- 
lined, took form, palpitated amidst the scent of 
forests and the trembling of the grass. ... It was 
like rippling water, the sound of a voice, the beauty 
of a verse or a statue; it possessed the smile of chil- 

1 In speaking of Otto and his country, Marthe used the fa- 
miliar ton and toi: “ ton pays et toi.” 


324 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


dren and the look of love. It was the sweetness 
and reason of life. 

With the proud ardour of his new faith, Otto 
loved it. But Marthe was stirred by a pro founder 
emotion. . . . With all her filial tenderness and 
piety, she venerated the torn body, the beautiful, 
mutilated face. 

“ Otto,” she said at last, “ you who have just 
fought for the German fatherland cannot blame me 
for having a greater love to-day for my native 
country, since she is in misfortune.” 

They had once more become poor beings full of 
suffering and a power to comprehend. The play- 
things of Fate, they were unable to resist the ob- 
scure current which tore them apart. . . . Time 
rushed headlong, — irresistible, and on the foam 
danced the fragments of older days. 

“ All that is quite true,” sighed Otto. “ What 
then?” 

“ Trust in me! . . . When a little time has 
passed by, when the wound is less open, I will come 
of my own accord with our child.” 

“ Very good,” said Otto. “ Then I will set out 
alone, with your word.” 

One after the other they bent over the child, who 
had quietly gone to sleep again. They kissed him 
on the forehead and then looked at each other with 
the same thought. They had said farewell to their 
past, — that dead past which, whatever they might 
do, Hermann Jean Pierre Rudheimer bore within 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 325 


him. For a moment, after being drawn together 
by the gravity of the solemn homage they were 
rendering, they stepped back, thinking of the dim 
and uncertain future. . . . However, when on the 
point of shooting back the bolt which he had pushed 
to in prevision of this discussion, Otto hesitated. 
. . . And returning to Marthe, he awkwardly, 
timidly held out his hand. . . . They had ceased to 
love, but they could still esteem each other. . . . 
She also hesitated, then, her eyes dim with tears, 
advanced her fingers. ... It was a weak, uncertain 
hand-clasp, no sooner begun than ended, amidst the 
confusion of their feeble hearts. . . . 

Two days later Otto set off on his journey. It 
was the morning of March 20th. The news of the 
insurrection in Paris had provided a diversion from 
the embarrassment of their last hours together. 
Since the previous day people had commented on the 
assassination of Generals Lecomte and Clement 
Thomas, the city in the hands of the revolted 
national guard, Thiers and the government in flight. 

. . . Otto, wearing his uniform for the last time, 
listened with a politeness in which there was a spice 
of contempt. These upheavals, which M. Ellange 
severely condemned, provided — and Louis, in spite 
of his sympathy for great republican Paris, was 
the first to confess it — the most lamentable specta- 
cle. How the Germans, following the drama with 
their glasses from the heights of the ramparts of the 
forts, must have rejoiced, judging by Otto’s half- 


326 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


hidden smile. However, the details and unforeseen 
vicissitudes of the struggle were returned to again 
and again, and thus the painful moments preceding 
the separation were shortened. Every one felt ill 
at ease. The Ellanges strove to hide their anxiety 
to see the house rid of their guest; Marthe, with a 
feeling now and then of shame, shared their inso- 
lent joy. Otto was the most troubled of all. At 
times he regretted his generosity, came to the con- 
clusion that he had been duped. Every day which 
went by widened the breach between himself and 
this woman (was she his wife?), — between himself 
and his son. . . . Their fit of tenderness over, the 
father and mother had once more, in spite of their 
tacit truce, become at war again. . . . When the 
moment came to mount his horse, Otto had several 
times taken the child from Marthe’s arms to kiss 
him once more. All four had momentarily stood 
face to face, not knowing whaE to say. Words 
would not have expressed their true feelings ; there 
was too much rancour between them, — their 
wounds, all of which, they felt, would never be 
healed, were still too fresh. Around his parents-in- 
law, motionless in their black clothes, Otto involun- 
tarily sought' for the grandfather and Jacques, 
witnesses of other departures. . . . How could he 
hold out his hand to those hands which refused to 
seek his? ... Yet he would have liked to have 
shaken hands with his hosts, as much on account of 
his loyalty as an honest man as because of a feeling 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 327 


of national pride; to clasp hands would have been 
very much of an homage, a little like amnesty. . . . 
But Louis’ attitude finally warned him. The young 
man hid his remaining arm behind his back; and 
both his glaring look and the empty sleeve pinned 
on his breast seemed to say, “ I cannot ! ”... So, 
with his heels together in military fashion and with 
a grand salute, Otto took his leave. Silently, as 
awkwardly, as timidly as two days before, he 
touched Marthe’s fingers. . . . The orderly held the 
bridle and the stirrup. Otto, to keep himself in 
countenance, verified the length of the stirrup-straps, 
inspected the girth, and, having sprung into the sad- 
dle, once more rapidly brought his right hand to the 
level of his flat cap. . . . Then, without turning his 
head, he slowly rode away, as though he had been 
a stranger, a passing guest, in the conquered 
town. . . . 

Not one of the Ellanges gave a thought to the 
sorrow which this attitude might conceal. When 
Otto disappeared round the corner of the Rue 
Porte-de-Paris, they felt as though a spectre had 
vanished from before them. They gave a sigh of 
relief. It was as though the house again belonged 
to them; they returned to it, after a long absence; 
they drew the curtains, opened the windows to the 
pure air and the full sunlight. Marthe was the 
only one, as she ascended with her son in her arms, 
who followed with a brief melancholy farewell the 
passer-by who carried away with him for ever the 


328 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


most beautiful years of her life. How far off they 
were already, how effaced from the memory! 
Those were the years when Marburg was but a little 
town of Hesse, when France lived a glorious life 
under the Empire ! . . . Since then the Empire had 
crumbled to the ground, dragging France with it. 

. . . Another Empire, amidst the smoke of battles, 
had arisen on her mutilated native land, on its 
towns, on the wounded and the dead. . . . This 
was all the passer-by had left behind him. . . . 
Passer-by! Pass on thy way! . . . She pressed 
Jean Pierre against her heart, but she only asso- 
ciated him with the idea of Otto in order to turn 
away from the latter and hasten towards the future. 

. . . Even the father had disappeared. . . . The 
dear little being was the only one to remain, and al- 
ready in her soul she raised him, like an offering, 
towards the fatherland. Jean Pierre would replace 
Jacques. 

April came and with it a blue cloudless sky, so 
resplendent, amidst the warm light, that one asked 
oneself if winter had ever existed, that terrible 
winter of rain, fog and frost during which hundreds 
of thousands of men, dying of hunger and cold, had 
tramped in the midst of bloody mud and snow over 
fields and roads strewn with bodies. The buds, the 
little green leaves clothed each day, with an ever- 
increasing verdant lacework, the black trees of the 
Esplanade. At Easter the whole household moved 
to Pont-Noyelles. Everybody was in a hurry to 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 329 


flee from Amiens and forget that the Prussians were 
still in occupation there. Hastily repaired, the left 
wing of the house offered a sufficiently comfortable 
shelter. Marthe could not look upon the every- 
where tangible traces of the battle without suddenly 
feeling that she was torn, as much as ever, by the 
old impressions. 

The principal fagade was but a cracked and black- 
ened wall, with yawning openings and a fallen in 
roof. Every afternoon, on their way to the or- 
chard, they had to pass in front of the greenhouse, 
every pane of which was broken. The flower-beds, 
where wall-flowers were here and there springing 
up again, were covered with wheel-marks. 

But under the plum-trees, in the long grass where 
the primroses and violets grew, the nightmare van- 
ished. There, in the great silence, under the low, 
perfumed trees, similar to large pink and white 
bouquets, Nature serenely continued her interrupted 
work. Insects ran about on the mossy paths, and 
in the blue air yellow butterflies flitted. On the 
banks of the Hallue the poplars still raised their 
fresh spindle-like forms, and the aspens, at the 
slightest breeze, trembled like a silver veil. 

Jean Pierre, installed in his carriage, was sleeping 
by Marthe’s side. She had resumed, in company 
with her mother, their little pieces of work of 
former days. Knitting, fashioned with agile fin- 
gers, had been succeeded by bands of embroidery. 

. . . Mme. Ellange, continually fatigued, set down 


330 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


upon her knees the piece of green American cloth 
on which the linen she was embroidering was tacked. 
. . . Marthe looked at her stealthily. How she had 
aged ! Her hair had become quite white ; her face, 
formerly so round, was hollow-cheeked; her eyes 
were of a still paler blue, through shedding many 
tears. Though but forty-eight, she appeared to be 
sixty. Every spring was broken within her. . . . 
With her arms hanging down and a vague look in 
her eyes, her thoughts revolved around the happi- 
ness which had fled from her. She resembled a 
shadow. 

Nimbly, Marthe added stitch to stitch. With 
the same thread she sewed the silk and her thoughts. 
She advanced, needleful after needleful, across the 
desolate field of recollections to the edge where the 
road turned towards the unknown of to-morrow. 
Her thoughts were confused, without apparent con- 
nection, but they ever returned to Louis. He was 
shaking off the torpor of his despair with difficulty, 
was reopening his books. M. Ellange persuaded 
him that he could still continue to plead. No one, 
on seeing one of the sleeves of his gown hanging 
down by his side, would think of smiling. . . . 
Everybody, on the contrary, would surround him 
with sympathy. Come now, he would make a fine 
figure, soon, with the ribbon of the Legion of Hon- 
our on his breast, — the red ribbon, the colour of 
blood! . . . Louis gently acquiesced; but Marthe 
could clearly see, when he came to sit down near his 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 331 


nephew, — whose nose he tickled with a leaf, — 
what an incurable regret was hidden by his pale, 
tired smile. He was sorrowing over his amputated 
youth, his lost love. 

May came and with it the enchantment of the 
roses. There were blooms in all the alleys. M. 
Ellange, his forehead shaded by a straw hat, went 
from one tree to another, with pruning shears in 
his hand. He cut off the suckers and drove away 
the plant-lice. Only the vegetable life of Nature 
now interested him. He in no way resembled the 
former Imperial Procurator. He was round-shoul- 
dered and dragged his legs as he walked; on the 
bony face, formerly arrogant and hard, nothing 
could be read save sadness; his complexion, once 
yellow, had become cadaverous. The last ten 
months of anguish had left their mark on his tem- 
ples, lined with a thousand wrinkles, on his drooping 
mouth, with its bitter furrows. Nothing that he 
had loved existed any more. The bar like the Re- 
public was full of new figures. He felt that he was 
a useless old man, only fit to wait for the liquida- 
tion of his pension. And then the end would come ! 
All his philosophy had left him, and even in his 
library, surrounded by his beautifully bound books, 
which by a miracle had been saved, he remained 
musing for hours, without even thinking of taking 
down from the familiar shelf one of his classics, 
the Cicero or the good Horace of former days. 
Reading — all the rubbish of historians and poets! 


332 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


— had become odious to him. How full of vanity 
were human ideas, — these literatures and sciences 
which ended in the shambles of Sedan and Metz, 
in the cannon’s brutal denial l “ Do you know, 
Marthe,” said he, “ when I think that, after the 
foreign war, we are now submitting to a civil war, 
when I think that Paris and Versailles have begun 
to massacre each other, I have a desire to turn my 
face to the wall like the Major and let death take 
me!” 

She tried in vain to rouse his courage. The 
bloody end of the Commune, in the midst of mur- 
der and fire, struck all of them with horror. . . . 
“ The Court of Accounts, the Louvre, the Tuiler- 
ies ! ” murmured M. Ellange. . . . Their eyes fol- 
lowed in the black spirals of smoke, in the scarlet 
flames, this disappearance of the past. All the glory 
of France was being scattered to the winds; noth- 
ing remained but shame and rage, the loathsome 
odour of blood. 

More closely, in those days which recalled and 
surpassed the worst stages of their punishment, the 
Ellange family drew together, in the house which 
had also been sacked. ... By forming a close com- 
munity all their sorrows were grouped together. 
It seemed to them that by supporting the crushing 
load conjointly, each felt its weight less. Never, 
more than in the intimacy of those weeks, when 
they tried to take up life again, when, bit by bit, 
they remade, for their souls tossed about by the 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 333 


tempest, a precarious nest, had Marthe felt the com- 
fort of that affection to which no other is equal. 
She came to understand the sweetness and strength 
of the bonds which unite parents to their child and 
a sister to her brother. Two short years had not 
sufficed (as, for a moment, she had thought between 
Otto and herself, at Marburg!) to form the solid 
and supple links of that tenderness which her par- 
ents felt, that understanding which is comprehended 
by a sign or a silence. It was made up of a con- 
tinuous chain of joys and sorrows, old sacrifices, 
great and small events, of everything and nothing. 
It came from a very distant past. Before them 
other Ellanges had woven that tenderness, with their 
lives and their deaths. 

The Past! . . . Beyond the war, beyond the 
years at Marburg, it began, insensibly, to regain 
possession of Marthe. ... It insinuated itself into 
her; it floated around her. It was the Past which, 
without her knowing it, she met when, wandering 
through the devastated streets of Pont-Noyelles, 
she saw her adolescence rise from the thresholds of 
the doors with the little girls who were playing 
there. “File, Hie, ma quenouille! . . . Le temps 
passe, le temps val ” It was the Past which sang 
through the careless voices, as it had sung twenty 
years before with her own voice, as, during two 
hundred years, it had sung before the same doors, 
with the voices of other little girls. One after the 
other they had become mothers, and then grand- 


334 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


mothers, and other little girls had sung. It was the 
Past which gave the tombstones in the humble cem- 
etery so warm a colour, which covered them with 
lichens, so that the engraved names were no longer 
distinguishable. It was the Past which covered the 
ground with the mounds of the dead, which made 
the box-bush grow green and the warm circular 
shadow of the old lime-tree on the low wall so 
pleasant. . . . 

Every Sunday, after mass, Marthe sat for a mo- 
ment or two under that patch of shade. From there 
she could see the distant tops of the trees of the 
park, and, on turning round, the black marble 
plaque on the wall of the mausoleum. The golden 
letters of a new name shone at the bottom of the 
list of the dead: “ Jean Pierre Ellange, 1789- 
I870. ,, His vault was ready. Marthe thought 
sadly of the absence of the other name. When 
would they be able to have the second line engraved ? 
Mentally she repeated the funereal syllables : 
“ Jacques Ellange, 1842-1870.” Would the big 
brother ever rest on French ground, near those of 
his family and his race? 

It was at the beginning of June, with the sun 
shining splendidly, that the translation of the 
Major’s remains took place. Marthe, confiding her 
son to her mother and old Julie, wished to accom- 
pany M. Ellange and Louis to Amiens. She wished 
to place a few roses on Frida Lehmann’s tomb, 
and then, in a carriage, follow the funeral procession 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 335 


from the Madeleine cemetery to Pont-Noyelles. 
During the carrying out of the administrative for- 
malities, including the painful recognition of the 
body, she went to pray in the Cathedral. She 
reached the open grave at the moment the hearse 
was starting and had just time to hurry to the 
neighbouring sepulchre and place her bouquet on the 
stela, which she had had raised to the memory of 
her friend. . . . Poor Frida! She also had been 
a victim ! . . . The long journey was made at walk- 
ing pace. At the Chaussee Saint Pierre they met 
a Prussian detachment, — foot-soldiers of the 44th 
regiment returning from drill. The father and his 
children looked at each other in silence. But the 
Prussians, in the mechanical manner in which they 
handle their arms, rendered honours. Unknowingly 
the conquerors of Sedan had saluted the conqueror 
of Jena. 

A few days later M. Ellange and Louis set out 
with Lieutenant Charbalye for Lorraine. He nad 
obtained permission to assist the parents of his 
friend in their searches. After a thousand difficul- 
ties all three at last reached the scene of the battle 
of August 14th. Step by step they followed the 
path taken by the 43rd regiment, found the spot 
where Jacques had fallen, and then returned to the 
alley of pine-trees, the sad road from Mey to Vil- 
lers rOrme. . . . Which of these sandy hillocks — 
all identical under the dark trees — covered the 
body of their dear one? In vain did Lieutenant 


SS6 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Charbalye recall his recollections. Here they had 
buried Germans and French pell-mell; there a major 
and two captains. . . . The spot must be further 
on, unless . . . Winter had passed destroying 
the slender cross of branches. There was nothing 
now to mark the place where Jacques Ellange, with 
his soldiers, slept his last sleep. . . . Germany kept 
the whole of him. When her father returned and 
she heard his narrative, Marthe mused a long time. 
It was all very well for Germany to stick black and 
white sign-posts on the territory of Lorraine, and 
along the arbitrary line of the new frontier! On 
the right bank of the Moselle, on the deep road from 
Mey to Villers l’Orme, Jacques reposed, all the 
same, in French soil! 

July came and with it the magnificence of sum- 
mer. The days passed in vain and Marthe’s feel- 
ings remained as violent as at the time of Otto's 
departure. The interval had even resulted in her 
seeing things with still greater clearness. She could 
consider matters as a whole. She discovered that 
the more distant she felt from her German hus- 
band, the nearer she came to her own people, to 
her home, to the air of France. Since April she 
had received several letters from Marburg. Every 
one of them, in spite of their cautious tone, had 
caused her painful irritation; every one of them 
had revived, in little, the terrible year. Otto 
counted on her word, — awaited her. Would she 
come for the holidays? He gave no details re- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 337 


garding his own feelings, restricted himself to news 
about his parents and to wishing for longer reports 
(which Marthe sent him every week) concerning 
Hermann’s health. . . . Left free to choose her own 
time, Marthe put off her decision from hour to 
hour. At first, relieved to find that she was free, 
she had put aside all idea of return. Later! . . . 
Then, little by little, she had returned to reality. 
She ceaselessly thought now of the fatal day when 
her promise would have to be fulfilled. She had 
promised to return when her wound was healed a 
little. . . . She must keep to her word ! She in no 
way deceived herself as to the result. ... It would 
be a question of a week or two! She, a German? 
She, condemned to such an asphyxiating life? 
Her whole being revolted. . . . What then? . . . 
But there was Jean Pierre to think about, or rather, 
as they called him over there, Hermann. . . . 
That was the difficult point, where the redoubtable 
unknown began. However, she had confidence. 

On the day after that on which the corps of occu- 
pation left Amiens she made up her mind. She 
decided to leave via Belgium and thus avoid the 
odious crossing of Alsace. She would take with 
her, to look after Jean Pierre, her femme de cham- 
bre, Henriette, the gardener’s daughter. It was 
July 23rd. Her father and mother accompanied 
her to the railway-station. ... It was more than a 
year since, on a similar morning, she had arrived 
there with Otto. 


338 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


Marburg at last appeared in the golden light of 
evening. Marthe took in, with a long look, the 
red railway-station, the bridges over the Lahn, the 
two towers of St. Elizabeth, the picturesque town 
stretched out on the side of the mountain, with its 
gardens and roofs, and, on the top, the chateau’s 
feudal silhouette. . . . Nothing had changed. Otto 
was waiting for her on the platform, as though 
she was returning from a visit to Giessen. She 
recognised him in the distance by his tall stat- 
ure. 

He opened the carriage door and helped her to 
descend. . . . And he also had remained, or rather 
had once more become the same ! . . . He was the 
Otto of former days, the one whom she had loved 
before the war. His face was once more good and 
loyal, his eyes were as clear as the waters of a 
spring. Only, a few grey hairs whitened his thick 
beard. And yet he was another man! ... He 
contemplated her without knowing how to look, but 
immediately he understood and quickly turned aside 
to take his son from Henriette’s arms. Wonder- 
struck, he kissed him. But on feeling the stiff hairs 
Jean Pierre began to cry lustily. 

“ This little fellow Hermann has improved won- 
derfully; he has doubled in weight,” declared Otto 
in German, avoiding the tu or the vous , but with 
a manifest wish to set things right. 

She replied in French : 

“You think so?” 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 339 


And calming the little one’s great grief with a 
kiss, she added : 

“ Be good, Jean Pierre! ” 

The shock of the two Christian names, the in- 
expressible coldness, the opposition of one language 
to another completed Otto’s impression as to the 
meaning of Marthe’s reserved welcome. She had 
taken up this attitude for ever. The eternal an- 
tagonism would recommence, still more irremediably 
than at Amiens. Alone, in his little house, he had 
passed along the same road as Marthe, but in the 
opposite direction; — he had been as much drawn 
to her as she had felt estranged from him. Seeing 
her on the carriage step, looking so fresh and so 
beautiful, his old desire — greater than ever — had 
reawakened within him. Certainly he had not 
hoped that after such a trial as they had undergone 
they would find themselves intact, but he thought 
that perhaps with the fragments of their happiness 
they might still be able to rebuild a poor happiness. 

. . . But with one blow the humble building was 
brought to the ground, — a last ruin, after so many 
ruins! They were but two enemies of different 
race, face to face. Her clear eyes became veiled 
with tears. With a stamp of his foot he regained 
possession of himself. 

Their odious existence began at that minute. . . . 
They knew the slow torture of living side by side 
and being unable to agree about anything. Their 
customs, habits and tastes were in absolute disagree- 


342 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


morrow, be masters of ourselves? ... Yet the 
Lord is my witness that I could still have loved you, 
had you been willing. . . . Oh ! yes, I know ! That 
would have been a superhuman effort on your part. 
. . . And that is neither your fault nor mine. ,, 

She looked at him, surprised, still distrustful. 

Meditation and sorrow had, during these weeks 
when the supreme struggle had taken place within 
him, made his features paler and more refined. An 
expression of resigned sadness made his look — 
still bitter — less hard. He had questioned his 
conscience as a man. Had he the right to condemn 
this existence to death? Was it not just that he 
who had lost neither brother nor relatives — that 
he also should pay ransom for the triumph of his 
country? The sacrifice of his happiness was his 
contribution to the grandeur of Germany. With a 
mystic sorrow he accepted the sacrifice, however 
hard it might be. 

“ Yes, I have reflected, I have understood. . . . 
War has arisen between us, as between our two 
countries. . . . And war is a terrible thing ! ” 

For a moment he was silent. They saw the 
scourge before them, and with flames whirling 
furiously, the crash of cannon, and the air rent with 
the death-rattle of the wounded. 

“ War makes man brutal. It kills the tenderest 
feelings.” 

Marthe closed her eyes. Their love lay among 
the dead. Both, with pious horror, thought of what 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 343 


they had lost. . . . Their lives torn up by the roots, 
shattered! . . . She also saw the Major and 
Jacques; Otto, friends who had disappeared. . . . 
And around them they saw again, by hundreds of 
thousands, homes in mourning and corpses, — 
corpses already rotting under the earth. . . . More 
than two hundred thousand Frenchmen, more than 
one hundred and thirty thousand Germans! . . . 
With all her woman’s soul she cursed the monstrous 
folly, — imbecile and savage war. . . . She had 
risen, was surveying the formerly familiar dining- 
room, with the Delft jar and its bunch of sun- 
flowers, the white stove encircled with copper. She 
murmured : 

“ Yes, war. . . . Had it not been for the war — ” 

But Otto shook his head. 

“We ought to bow before the supreme will. 
This war was destined. God willed it. A German, 
as a man, may feel sad over it, but he ought to re- 
gret nothing.” 

Marthe’s tenderness suddenly vanished. As a 
Catholic and a Frenchwoman her soul rose up, 
armed, against the Protestant teuton, the intransi- 
gent conqueror. . . . 

Otto continued : 

“ Depart. I cannot, nor do I wish to, keep you 
here against your will. I will ask the Court at Cas- 
sel to dissolve our marriage. . . . Your departure 
will constitute one of the grounds for divorce fore- 
seen by our law. Desertion with a bad intention. 


344 THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 


. . . Thus will be broken the bond which tortures 
us. You can become a Frenchwoman again.” 

There was a fearful ring of regret in his voice. 
How quickly Marthe would forget! . . . Over- 
whelmed, she had leaned for support against the 
back of the arm-chair. And Jean Pierre? ... In 
her rapture she thought only of him. . . . Otto gave 
a brief, intense thought to everything which was 
vanishing behind them. Then, great in his way, he 
resumed : 

“ Hermann is too little for me to think of sep- 
arating him from you at present. I leave him in 
your hands until he is five years old. He will be 
brought to me every year, one month at Easter and 
two months during my vacation. Afterwards, with 
equal rights in your favour, I will have him here, 
in order to provide for his education.” 

Trusting in the supremacy of his race, he imag- 
ined that, after the momentary absence, he would 
be able to re-establish the equilibrium and make 
Hermann into a German. Thus, with humanity, 
he conciliated all interests. With much dignity he 
waited for the reply. 

But Marthe, overcome with joy, burst into tears. 
The surprise was too pleasing a one, liberation had 
come too suddenly. In her fervour she imagined, 
on her side, that revenge was certain, — that Jean 
Pierre would become French. The future was in 
her hands ! It merely depended on her skill, affec- 
tion, intelligence and faith. Born in France, edu- 


THE FRONTIERS OF THE HEART 345 


cated as she knew how to educate him, her son, 
when twenty-one, would choose. . . . Taking Otto’s 
hand in hers and pressing it, all she could say, stam- 
meringly, was : 

“ Thank you!” 

One moment more they remained in front of the 
window without speaking. Evening was falling on 
the magnificent horizon. The mountains were be- 
coming a dark violet in the sunset. Large purple 
and black clouds, resembling volcanic smoke, were 
rising from the sun, as from a crater of gold. They 
were standing side by side, and could have touched 
each other. . . . But invisible walls stood between 
them; from one to the other was the whole distance 
which separates Marburg from Amiens, the towers 
of St. Elizabeth from the steeple of the Cathedral, 
dismembered and vanquished France from trium- 
phant Germany. . . . There were the frontiers of 
the heart. Stronger than love, the feeling for race 
and country had, under the influence of war, swept 
away the past. . . . Before them stretched, like a 
disputed country, their son’s distant future. 

Lower and lower, every moment, sank the sun; 
finally, it disappeared. And with unspeakable mel- 
ancholy, their eyes fixed on the dark and blood-red 
clouds, Otto and Marthe felt the best part of them- 
selves die with the day. 


THE END 























































































































































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library of congress 



00021770131 ^ 































